r 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

C/LiFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


-S4-9-f&"if9-ftt*T9*f&r'**»*$JirtMT&ft 


:  Sirhari  (5. 


1905 


Copyright  1904  by  JAMES  W.  FOLEY 


All  rights  reserved 


The  greater  part  of  the  verses  contained  in  this  vol 
ume  originally  appeared  in  the  BISMARCK  TRIBUNE,  the 
NEW  YORK  TIMES,  and  the  CENTURY  MAGAZINE,  to  whose 
editors  and  proprietors  the  author  presents  his  compli 
ments  and  thanks  for  permission  to  use  the  same. 


THE   GORHAM   PRESS 
BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


TO  MY  WIFE 


(Eotttottfi 


A  TOAST  TO  MERRIMENT  ....  9 

WHY  THE  JURY  DISAGREED  10 

A  MIDWINTER  PASTORAL  .        .        .        .  13 

A  VERSE  TO  MEMORY        .        .        .        .  15 

A  CHRISTMAS  GREETING  16 

SOME  POINTERS  FROM  GRUM  18 

JUST  How  IT  WAS  .....  19 

FORSAKEN          ......  21 

ON  MODERN  Music  .....  21 

GOLDEN  DAYS  IN  SLOWVILLE   ...  23 

BALLAD  OF  THE  RAIN        ....  25 

OLD  FRIENDS    ......  27 

THE  LEPER  AND  THE  BELL        ...  28 

A  CHILD'S  ALMANAC        ....  29 

YESTERDAY         ......  30 

IN  A  LITTLE  WHILE  .....  30 

A  MISTAKEN  IMPRESSION         ...  31 

A  REMINISCENCE  OF  THE  LONE  PINE  TRAIL  32 

FAMILY  RESEMBLANCES    ....  34 

THE  BEREAVEMENT  .....  35 

A  GENEALOGICAL  HOMILY        ...  36 

IF  HE  ONLY  HAD  A  MIND        ...  38 

POOR  JIM  .......  41 

POET  AND  PEASANT  .....  43 

SONG         .......  44 

LIFE,  LOVE,  AND  DEATH  ....  45 

WINTER     .......  46 

THE  CYNIC'S  FRIENDS      ....  46 

AN  UP-COUNTRY  FEUD    ....  47 

Miss  TABBY  TATTLE  READS  THE  WEEKLY 

PAPER         ......  50 

THE  LOVABLE  LASS  OF  THE  GROUCHY  OLD 

MAN           ......  52 


Page 

A  CRITICISM 53 

PERSEVERANCE           ...  -54 
A  VISION  OF  THE  LITTLE  COUNTRY  TOWN         57 

FROM  THE  COURT  RECORDS        .         .  59 

DON'  WANT  TO  STAY       ...  62 

DROPPING  PEBBLES  IN  THE  STREAM  .  63 

GIVE  ME  CONTENT  ....  65 

IN  CHILDHOOD  TIME        .        .  65 

THE  POWER  OF  LOVE        ...  66 

A  HUMAN  LIFE        .        .  67 

WINTER  AND  SUMMER      .        .  68 

WHERE?    ....  68 

THE  PARTED  THREADS      .        .  69 

AT  THE  WAR  OFFICE        ...  7° 

INDESTRUCTIBLE         ...  71 

THE  VILLAGE  CHURCH     .        .  72 

CONTENTMENT           ...  .74 

A  HORSE  TRADE        ...  74 

THE  INEXORABLE      ...  75 

THE  MORTGAGED  FARM     ...  76 

A  GOOD  DEED  DONE  .  78 

'NOUGH  FOR  ME 78 

TAPS          .                                  •  80 

SONG  OF  ENDEAVOR  ...  81 

OUT  OVER  THERE     .         .  82 

LOOK  UP  ...  84 

THE  DEAD         .  85 

WRITING  A  LETTER  HOME 

THE  CUP  WILL  PASS        ...  86 

STUBBED  HIS  TOE 

FORGETFULNESS 

AN  ART  CRITICISM  . 

THE  ARCHER'S  SHAFT      .        .  9° 

FRIENDS     .....  9° 

VANITIES            ...  91 

THE  LOST  HEART 92 


Page 

COMPENSATION          .  •  94 

THE  UNSOUNDED  DEPTHS          ...        94 

A  PARTING 95 

THE  LOST  CHANCE  .  ...        96 

VERSES  TO  A  LITTLE  CHILD        ...        97 

THE  DIFFERENCE 9& 

GLADNESS  BY  THE  WAY    .  .         .        98 

LOST  OPPORTUNITIES  ....  100 
BENEATH  THE  SNOWS  ....  101 
A  LADY'S  LETTER  OF  REGRET  .  .  .102 
THE  EVIL  OF  WISHING  .  .  .  .103 


A  QJnaat  to  Hforrimntf 

Make  merry !    Though  the  day  be  gray 

Forget  the  clouds  and  let's  be  gay! 
How  short  the  days  we  linger  here: 
A  birth,  a  breath,  and  then  —  the  bier ! 

Make  merry,  you  and  I,  for  when 

We  part  we  may  not  meet  again ! 

What  tonic  is  there  in  a  frown? 
You  may  go  up  and  I  go  down, 

Or  I  go  up  and  you  —  who  knows 

The  way  that  either  of  us  goes? 
Make  merry !    Here's  a  laugh,  for  when 
We  part  we  may  not  meet  again. 

Make  merry !    What  of  frets  and  fears  ? 
There  is  no  happiness  in  tears. 

You  tremble  at  the  cloud  and  lo! 

'Tis  gone  —  and  so  'tis  with  our  woe, 
Full  half  of  it  but  fancied  ills. 
Make  merry !    'Tis  the  gloom  that  kills. 

Make  merry!    There  is  sunshine  yet. 

The  gloom  that  promised,  let's  forget. 
The  quip  and  jest  are  on  the  wing, 
Why  sorrow  when  we  ought  to  sing? 

Refill  the  cup  of  joy,  for  then 

We  part  and  may  not  meet  again. 

A  smile,  a  jest,  a  joke  —  alas ! 

We  come,  we  wonder,  and  we  pass. 
The  shadows  fall ;  so  long  we  rest 
In  graves,  where  is  no  quip  or  jest. 

Good  day !    Good  cheer !    Good-bye !    For  then 

We  part  and  may  not  meet  again ! 


I  am  an  honest  man,  I  am ;  ez  fair  ez  a  man  kin 

be; 
Fer  anything  that's  on  th'  square,  I'm  willin'  to 

agree ; 
But  when  I'm  right,  no  set  o'  men  kin  argify  with 

me. 

I  heerd  th'  witnesses  myself  an'  I  heerd  th'  law 
yers,  too; 

I  heerd  th'  j edge's  charge,  V  jing,  that  some  of 
'em  slept  right  through, 

An'  that  man,  he  wa'n't  guilty,  sir,  no  more  'n  me 
er  you. 

Now,  what's  th'  use  t'  argify  when  y'  know  right 

where  ye  're  at? 
If  my  mind's  made  up,  'y  jing,  I'll  stay,  y'  kin  bet 

yer  Sunday  hat; 
When  y'  can't  git  nothin'  in  th'  draw,  my  doctern 

is,  stand  pat. 

Ten  of  'em  stood  for  th'  feller's  guilt  on  th'  fust 

vote,  instantly; 
One  of  'em  voted  his  ballot  blank  an'  th'  other  one 

was  me, 
An'  of  all  th'  stubborn,  senseless  mules,  I  swan  I 

never  see! 

I  'low  I  know  what's  evidence  an'  I  got  some 

slight  idee 
Of  law  myself,  though  I  don't  perfess  to  be  no 

LL.D. 
But  th'  ain't  no  'leven  men  on  airth  kin  bulldoze 

Silas  Lee. 


10 


They  argified  an'  argified,  with  now  an'  then  a. 
swear ; 

I  set  an'  listened  to  'em  talk  an'  never  turned  a 
hair, 

Fer  when  I  tired  o'  hearin'  'em,  I  jes'  played  soli 
taire. 

Thank  Heaven  I  ain't  no  stubborn  fool;  I  got 

some  common  sense; 
I  take  my  law  fr'm  th'  jedge,  'y  jing,  an'  I  sift 

th'  evidence; 
But  when  it  comes  to  my  idees,  wal,  I  ain't  on  th' 

fence. 

They  all  got  middlin'  temperish  when  th'  court 
house  clock  struck  nine; 

But  nary  a  one  of  'em  guv  in,  clear  down  th'  stub 
born  line; 

They  jes'  adhered  to  their  idees  an'  I  adhered  t' 
mine. 

John  Scruggs,  he  'lowed  t'  calcalate  the  jury  orto 

rise; 
He  had  some  chores  t'  do  at  hum  an'  he  said  he'd 

compermise  ; 
An'  I  said  I'd  stay  till  they  let  him  off  —  er  th' 

stars  fell  fr'm  th'  skies. 

'Twas  'long  'bout  midnight  time,  I  guess ;  I'd  beat 

my  sixteenth  game 
O'  solitaire,  an'  th'  light  burned  dim  with  a  sickly 

sort  o'  flame, 
When  Jason  Benson  up  an'  'lowed  how  I  was  all 

t'  blame! 


ii 


I  riz  right  up  fr'm  off  my  cheer  an'  fetched  him 

one  so  free 
That  I  'low  y'  couldn't  count  th'  stars  that  Jason 

Benson  see ; 
An'  Jason's  cousin  (through  his  first  wife)  he  tuk 

a  smash  at  me ! 

We  mixed  it  purty  middlin'  warm;  Wash  Jen 
kins,  he  struck  out 

At  Jason's  cousin  (through  his  first  wife)  an' 
fetched  him  sech  a  clout 

That  his  nose  was  flatter  'n  griddle-cakes,  an'  th' 
blood  jes'  spurted  out. 

Hamp  Hawkins  slid  down  underneath  th'  table — 

Hamp  was  slim  — 
But  someone  guv  th'  lamp  a  shove  an'  overturned 

th'  glim. 
Hamp's  clothes  tuk  fire  fr'm  th'  kerosene  an'  durn 

nigh  finished  him. 

Win  Watson  mounted  of  a  cheer  an'  jes'  begin  t' 

shout 
"  Peace !  Peace  !  "  when  Jason  Benson  he  fetched 

him  a  rousin'  clout 
That  laid  Win  len'thwise  on  th'  floor,  knocked 

plumb,  completely  out! 

Then  Scruggs  he  laid  a-holt  o'  me,  an'  Jason 

grabbed  my  throat, 
Both  holdin'  on  so  cussed  tight  I  couldn't  peel  my 

coat, 
An'  Jason's  cousin  (through  his  first  wife),  he 

says :   "  Let's  take  a  vote !  " 


12 


Then  all  of  'em  voted  fer  his  guilt  —  every  las' 

one  but  me ; 

They  never  had  no  notion  't  all  of  tryin'  to  agree, 
So  I  went  back  t'  solitaire,  fer  y'  can't  bluff  Silas 

Lee. 

Now  that's  th'  livin',  gospel  truth,  fer  any  man 

t'  read, 
It  ain't  fixed  up  t'  favor  me,  an'  it  ain't  no  lyin' 

screed ; 
Ez  fur  ez  I'm  consarned,  'y  jing,  th'  jury  was 

agreed ! 


A 


The  frost  gleams  thick  on  the  window  pane, 
The  cart  wheels  creak  down  the  frozen  lane  ; 
High  from  the  chimneys,  everywhere 
Rise  threads  of  smoke  to  the  biting  air; 
The  barn  door  creaks  with  a  plaintive  twinge, 
Where  the  glistening  frost  tints  the  rusted  hinge. 

The  old  pump  cries  —  a  shivering  cry  ; 

While  "  Crunch  !    Crunch  !   Crunch  !  "  tramp  the 

horses  by. 

The  chore  boy  shivers  as  he  stands 
And  beats  his  sides  with  his  mittened  hands  ; 
While  the  ice  forms  thick  on  the  old  pump  spout, 
As  the  glistening  water  gushes  out. 

There's  hoarfrost  deep  on  the  great  ox  yoke, 
And  the  breath  of  the  oxen  comes  like  smoke  ; 
The  clothes  hang  stiff  on  the  swaying  line, 
And  the  house  dog  stands  with  a  piteous  whine 
At  the  closed  storm  door  ;  and  the  milk  cows  wait 
With  huddled  bulks  at  the  barnyard  gate. 


The  prying  youngster,  unafraid, 

Dares  tip  his  tongue  to  the  frosted  blade 

Of  the  axe  that  lies  at  the  chopping-block ; 

The  erstwhile  strut  of  the  barnyard  cock 

Is  only  a  stiff  and  stilted  round 

As  he  picks  his  toes  from  the  frozen  ground. 

There's  snow  inch-deep  where  the  cows  once 

browsed, 

There's  frost  nail-thick  on  the  beasts  unhoused. 
The  chore  boy  stamps  in  the  drifted  snows 
To  coax  the  warmth  to  his  tingling  toes, 
As  he  drives  his  fork  in  the  sodden  hay, 
And  the  day  is  gray  in  a  gloomy  way. 

There's  a  "  Crunch  !  "  and  "  Crunch  !  "  as  foot 
steps  stalk 
Down  the  sounding  length  of  the  pine  board 

walk. 

The  well  wheel  squeaks  with  a  frosty  note 
And  the  well  rope's  stiff  with  an  icy  coat; 
The  gathered  oxen  drink  their  fill 
With  updrawn  backs,  and  a  shiver  chill. 

The  shed  door  creaks  with  a  shivering  sound, 
As  the  soapsuds  splash  on  the  frozen  ground 
Where  a  pail  from  the  half-bared  arms  is  swung 
Of  the  kitchen  maid,  who  gives  quick  tongue 
In  a  treble  "  B-r-r-r-h-h !  "  and  a  grateful  change 
Soon  finds  at  the  glow  of  the  kitchen  range. 

The  chore  boy  beds  his  beasts,  and  then 
Shoos  back  to  its  perch  a  vagrant  hen ; 
The  sodden  snow  from  his  feet  he  knocks 
Ere  he  piles  the  depths  of  the  great  wood-box 
With  snowy  sticks;  and  when  'tis  laid 
He  steals  a  kiss  from  the  kitchen  maid. 


The  fields  are  white  and  the  earth  is  dead ; 
The  frost  snaps  time  to  the  chore  boy's  tread, 
Stands  thick,  like  snow,  on  the  window  pane, 
And  the  cart  wheels  creak  down  the  frozen  lane. 
While  rise  from  the  chimneys  everywhere 
Thin  threads  of  smoke  on  the  frosty  air. 


A  Hrrae  to 


Now  Memory,  like  a  little  child, 

Takes  me  by  one  soft  hand. 
By  dreams  of  keen  delight  beguiled 

We  stray  through  Flowerland  ; 
And  like  the  child,  sweet  Memory 

By  many  a  byway  strays, 
Plucks  flowers  and  bears  them  back  to  me 

To  fashion  my  bouquets. 

By  many  sweet,  secluded  ways 

She  wanders,  far  or  near; 
A  rose  upon  my  garland  lays 

Bejeweled  with  a  tear: 
The  rose  of  some  far-flown  ideal, 

A  fragrance,  ah,  how  rare  ! 
My  fingers  close  but  to  reveal 

The  ashes  crumbling  there. 

Now  tinkling  laughter  ripples  clear 

As  some  new  flower  she  spies, 
Some  far-  forgotten  joys  appear 

As  fairy  faces  rise. 
My  thoughts  in  revel,  flower-wreathed, 

Heart-full,  my  garlands  lie, 
While  on  the  scented  air  is  breathed 

A  greeting  and  good-bye. 


Come,  Child,  away !    The  frolic  ends, 

The  flower  in  ashes,  dead ; 
The  perfume  with  the  air  that  blends 

We'll  bear  away  instead. 
Here  at  the  hedge  we  kiss  and  part, 

Some  sterner  duties  find. 
Bear  all  the  sweetness  in  the  heart 

But  leave  the  flowers  behind. 

Thank  God,  thank  God  for  Memory, 

Half  smile  and  half  a  tear; 
The  flowers  are  there  eternally, 

And  when  the  days  are  drear, 
In  through  the  tangled  hedge  of  days 

We  wander,  hand  in  hand, 
And  I  may  dream,  while  Memory  strays, 

A  child  in  Flowerland. 


A  OIljrtBtmaa 


"  Merry  Christmas  !  "  Wishin'  it 

Earnest;  ain't  no  hypocrite. 

Got  no  sort  o'  axe  to  grind, 

Jes'  feel  sort  o'  so  inclined. 

Heart  so  full  o'  happiness 

Wish  'et  I  c'd  call  an'  bless 

Everyone,  an'  so  I  say: 

"  Merry  Christmas  !    Bless  th'  day  !  " 

"  Merry  Christmas  !  "     Savin'  it 
Honest  like,  an'  heart  t'  fit. 
Wishin'  everyone  c'd  share 
Happiness,  an'  some  t'  spare. 


16 


Turkey  smokin'  hot  an'  brown, 
Old  an'  young  folks  settin'  'roun', 
Holly  twined  with  mistletoe, 
"Merry  Christmas!"  Jes'  feel  so! 

"  Merry  Christmas !  "     Frosty  air 

Echoin'  it  everywhere. 

"  Merry  Christmas  !  "     That's  what  tells 

In  th'  chime  o'  th'  church  bells. 

"  Merry  Christmas  !  "     Prose  er  rhyme 

Can't  do  justice  to  th'  time. 

Can't  find  language  t'  express 

What  it  holds  o'  happiness. 

"  Merry  Christmas  !  "     Want  t'  pray 

F'r  'em  all  jes'  thataway. 

Ain't  no  highfalutin'  prayer 

As  I  know  of  can  compare 

With  that  simple  wish  o'  mine: 

"  Merry  Christmas !  "  —  snow  er  shine, 

Heart  beats  happy  either  way, 

"  Merry  Christmas !  "     Bless  th'  day. 

"  Merry  Christmas !  "     Me  an'  you 

An'  th'  whole  world,  through  an'  through. 

Ain't  no  language  can  express 

What  it  means  o'  happiness. 

"  Merry  Christmas !  "     Prose  er  rhyme 

Can't  do  justice  to  th'  time. 

Jes'  ain't  nothin'  else  t'  say : 

"  Merry  Christmas  !     Bless  th'  day !  " 


from  drum 


"  Now  I  vum," 

Said  old  Grum, 
"  Y'  sh'd  keep  gals  t'  hum 
Till  they're  twenty  er  thirty 
Ez  tight  ez  a  drum. 

Y'  sh'd  1'arn 
'Em  t'  'am 

What  they  git  an'  consarn 
Themselves  with  the'r  chores, 
That's  my  doctern,  by  darn! 

An'  th'  boys 
Y'  sh'd  lick 

Every  day  with  a  stick, 
Till  they  come  when  y'  call  'em 
An'  come  mighty  quick  ! 

Y'  sh'd  teach 

'Em  that  speech 
Is  f'r  grown  folks  an'  sich; 
We  got  youngsters  t'  work, 
We  got  preachers  t'  preach. 

An'  this  dum 

Go  an'  come 
Is  all  nonsense,  I  vum. 
In  all  my  born  days 

Ain't  been  five  mile  fr'm  hum. 

Oh,  I  got 

Some  idees 
How  t'  raise  familees, 
How  I'm  goin'  t'  raise  mine; 
You  can  do  as  y'  please. 

18 


An'  f  r  clo'es, 
Do  y'  s'pose 
That  my  spondulix  goes 
F'r  Paris  creations 

An'  gowns  an'  silk  hose? 

Why,  say! 
This  old  plum 
Colored  suit  here,  I  vum, 
I  was  married  in  that 

An'  it's  good  now,  by  gum ! 

Oh,  I  got 
Some  idees 

How  t'  raise  familees. 
I  was  raised  thataway 

An'  by  gum  look  at  me !  " 


Jitat  Ifotu  3ft  Was 

"  Now,  just  let  me  see : 

Seems  to  me  that  'twas  she 

Objected  to  something 

That  he  did.    Or  he 

Objected  to  her  having 

Someone  to  tea. 

No  !    Now  isn't  that  queer  ? 

I  know  I  did  hear 

Just  the  way  that  it  was, 

But  it's  left  me,  I  fear. 

"  No !     It  comes  to  me  now 
It  seems  this  was  the  how 
Of  it:     Something  he  did 
That  she  wouldn't  allow. 

'9 


Or  was  it  her  old  folks 
That  started  the  row? 
No!     Now  that  isn't  right, 
I  know  that's  not  quite 
The  way  that  Miss  Gadaround 
Told  me  last  night. 

"Ah !    Now  I  recall 
The  gossip  and  all: 
It  seems  that  one  night 
When  he  went  there  to  call  — 
'Twas  last  Spring,  I  think, 
Or  was  it  this  Fall? 
Oh,  well,  anyway 
What  I  started  to  say 
Was  that  —  she  —  well, 
My  memory's  awful  today ! 

"  Now,  how  did  she  tell 

Me  that?    Well,  well!    Wrell!    Well!! 

You  know  she  got  her  story 

Right  straight  from  Nell. 

But  I  can't  quite  recall  now 

Just  what  she  did  tell 

Me  last  night.    Anyway, 

Whichever  it  may 

Be,  the  wedding  is  off, 

As  I  started  to  say !  " 


20 


High  in  the  tree  is  an  empty  nest 

Whence  the  fledgelings  of  yesterday  are  flown ; 
Hovers  a  bird  in  a  vague  unrest, 

Wondering,  it  may  be,  and  all  alone. 

Wondering,  it  may  be,  or  East  or  West 

Or  South  or  North  swept  the  wings  untried, 

Wondering  over  an  empty  nest 

And  the  blue  of  the  infinite  sky,  so  wide. 

High  in  the  attic  's  a  trundle  bed 

Whence  the  child  of  a  Yesterday  is  flown; 
Hovers  a  woman,  with  tears  unshed, 

Wondering,  it  may  be,  and  all  alone. 

Wondering,  it  may  be,  or  East  or  West 

Or  South  or  North  roams  the  youth  untried, 

Wondering  over  an  empty  nest, 

And  an  empty  heart ;  —  and  the  world  so  wide ! 


She  's  been  to  masters  French  and  Greek,  Italian 

and  Dutch, 
She  's  put  in  years  on  technique  and  she  's  put  in 

years  on  touch, 
She  's  long  on  Dago  music,  she  knows  all  the 

rhapsodies, 
She  's  got  a  pile  o'  nocturnes  like  a  haystack,  if 

y'  please; 
She  simply  dotes  on  Vogner ;  he  's  the  daddy  of 

'em  all, 


21 


To  hear  her  rave  about  him  when  th'  women 

come  t'  call. 
But  with  all  her  fuss  an'  notions,  sir,  I  wouldn't 

give  a  prune 
T'  hear  her  play  —  she  don't  know  how  t'  play 

one  goldurned  tune! 

She  sits  down  at  th'  bench  an'  draws  a  mighty, 

innard  breath, 
Then  slams  both  hands  down  this  way  —  like  t' 

scare  a  man  t'  death ! 
That's  the  prelude,  so  she  tells  me;  then  it's  too- 

dle-oodle-oo, 
Tweedle,    tweedle,    toodle,    toodle,    rattle,    tittle, 

tattle,  too ! 
Then  she  climbs  up  in  the  treble  and  she  teeters 

on  th'  keys, 
Like  a  bird  upon  a  limb  when  heavy  winds  is  in 

th'  trees ! 

Down  she  slides  into  the  bass  part  an'  she  ham 
mers  it  like  sin, 
While  I  sit  there  waitin',  waitin'  f'r  th'  music  t' 

begin. 

Purty  soon  she  strikes  up  somethin'  like  an  old, 
familiar  air, 

Sort  o'  sweet  an'  full  o'  comfort,  an'  I  tilt  back 
in  my  chair, 

Feelin'  glad  th'  noise  is  over  an'  th'  music  has 
begun, 

But  she  only  plays  a  note  or  two  an'  then  th' 
music  's  done. 

Bang!  She  strikes  a  bunch  o'  discords  an'  she 
races  down  th'  course, 

One  hand  a-follerin'  t'other  like  an  old,  string- 
halted  horse ; 


22 


An'  she  murmurs :  "  Daddy,  Daddy,  ain't  that 
harmony  jist  grand? 

Oh,  Daddy,  how  it  thrills  you  if  you  only  under 
stand'!  " 

Now  I  got  my  own  opinion  of  what  music  orto 
be, 

An'  it  ain't  no  bunch  o'  fingers  teeterin'  on  a  sin 
gle  key. 

It's  got  some  order  to  it,  an'  y'  hear  it  in  y'r  ears 

F'r  days  an'  months,  an'  sometimes,  if  it's  extry 
sweet,  f 'r  years  ! 

Y'  kin  gi'  me  Annie  Laurie,  played  th'  good,  ol'- 
fashioned  way  — 

Without  no  frills  or  furbelows  —  jes'  sit  down 
there  an'  play, 

An'  I  don't  ask  nothin'  sweeter;  f'r  me  it's  twict 
as  grand 

As  any  furrin  rhapsody  I  never  understand ! 


iagfi  ttt  &UrotttiU? 

These  are  golden  days  in  Slowville ;  there  is  glad 
ness  up  and  down; 

For  they  're  sticking  circus  posters  'round  the 
little  country  town. 

Flaming  sheets  of  red  and  yellow  on  its  every 
barn  and  fence 

Tell  of  wonders  aggregated  disregardful  of  ex 
pense. 

Tell  of  wildernesses  threaded  for  the  fierce  Big- 
rigmajig; 

Tell  of  jungle-beasts  made  captive  and  of  marvels 
small  and  big, 

"  In  a  most  stupendous  spectacle  of  splendor  and 
renown," 


Say  the  flaming  circus  posters  in  the  little  country 
town. 

They  have  wielded  monster  brushes   from  the 

dewy  hours  of  morn, 
They  have  covered   half  of  Jones's  barn  with 

grandeur  heaven-born ; 
They  have  pictured  fluffy  ladies  on  the  backs  of 

dashing  steeds, 
They  have  ornamented  Slowville  with  a  wealth  of 

daring  deeds; 
They  have  left  a  Ripperumptus  on  the  back  of 

Robbin's  fence, 

Captured  in  the  wilds  of  Africa  at  marvelous  ex 
pense  ; 
They've  a  retinue  of  big-eyed  lads  as  they  move 

up  and  down 
When  they  put  up  circus  posters  in  the  little 

country  town. 

Oh!  the  multicolored  marvels  done  in  wonder- 
rousing  haste 

With  a  broad  red  barn  for  background  and  no 
means  but  brush  and  paste. 

"  Hi,  there.  Jimmy !  See  the  monkeys  !  "  All 
the  air  is  shrill  with  cries 

As  the  myriads  of  wild  beasts  are  upreared  in 
gorgeous  dyes ; 

There's  the  fierce  Ornithorinktus  and  the  dread 
ful  Whatisnot, 

The  blood-sweating  Crinklawoozum  and  the 
awful  Bingleswat. 

Tent  and  sideshow,  flag  and  streamer,  elephant, 
parade,  and  clown  — 

Oh !  they're  sticking  circus  posters  'round  the 
little  countrv  town. 


24 


These  are  sleepless  nights  in  Slowville ;  sleepless 
nights  and  anxious  days; 

There's  a  hoarding  of  stray  pennies  got  in  half 
a  hundred  ways ; 

There  are  lads  in  wonder  raptured;  open- 
mouthed  with  bulging  eyes, 

Where  the  marvelous  menageries  from  gorgeous 
posters  rise; 

Oh!  there's  glory,  glory,  glory  in  the  chariots 
arrayed, 

There's  rapture  in  the  promise  of  the  splendorous 
parade ; 

And  new  life  has  come  to  Slowville  and  is  surg 
ing  up  and  down 

Since  they  put  up  circus  posters  in  the  little 
country  town. 


lallafc  nf  tlje  Uattt 

Puddles  and  pools  in  the  village  street, 

Dripping  eaves,  where  the  swallows  hide ; 
The  splash  and  splash  of  horses'  feet 

Down  the  muddy  lane,  and  the  trees  beside, 
Sodden  and  soaked  till  the  raindrops  fall, 

Like  tears,  and  the  twigs  with  jewels  set 
Of  limpid  water,  and  over  all 

A  haze  of  mist,  like  a  cloak  all  wet. 

Under  the  boughs  of  the  great  oak  tree 
The  glistening  bulks  of  the  huddled  kine, 

Driven  from  the  pasture  and  rhythmically 

Munching  their  cuds,  and  their  broad  backs 
shine, 

Drenched  and  matted  with  pelting  rain. 
Plaintively  sounding  a  lowing  wail; 


A  passing  team  in  the  muddy  lane 
And  a  muffled  and  melancholy  hail. 

Blinding  sheets  of  the  driven  rain ; 

Mist  over  hollow  and  plain  and  hill ; 
Splashing  drops  on  the  misted  pane 

That  trickle  down  to  the  window  sill; 
Beaten  fowls,  with  their  ruffled  crests, 

Crowding  close  to  the  sheltering  wall ; 
Dripping  orchards  and  sodden  nests, 

With  mist  like  a  wet  cloak  over  all. 

The  herdsman  lowers  his  broad  hat  brim 

To  a  sheltering  slant,  and  the  raindrops  fall 
From  the  beaded  edge  of  the  lowered  rim 

To  the  oilskin  coat  that  envelopes  all 
His  length ;  the  guiding  collie  stops 

From  gathering  in  the  grazing  flocks 
To  shake  from  his  sides  the  glistening  drops 

That  mat  the  mass  of  his  silken  locks. 

The  eave  spout  gushes  its  frothy  streams, 

Whence  the  rain  barrel  fills  and  overflows 
Its  sides,  and  the  slate  roof  blacker  gleams 

Through  the  murk  and  mist;  the  housewife 

goes 
From  room  to  room,  lest  the  windows  be 

Unshut,  and  peers  through  the  sodden  pall 
Without,  and  the  rain  beats  endlessly, 

With  mist  like  a  wet  cloak  over  all. 

Sullen  and  sodden  and  soaked  and  splashed 
With  pelting  drops  lies  the  distant  field ; 

The  roads  lie  heavy,  and  wet  steeds,  dashed 
With  mud,  where  a  carriage,  muddy-wheeled, 


26 


Rolls  down  the  road,  and  the  drear  day  long 
The  weeping  clouds  no  comfort  hold. 

The  pelting  rain  dins  a  sullen  song 
And  the  day  is  gloomy,  gray,  and  cold. 


IO  A.    M. 

"Well!    Well!    Good  mornin' !    Howdy  do! 
I  never  dreamed  o'  seein'  you. 
Jes'  come  back,  huh  ?    Been  away 
Since  'way  las'  June  —  or  was  it  May? 
Glad  to  see  you  ?    Well,  I  swan 
I  missed  ye  since  y'  hev  been  gone ! 
Huh?    Well,  I  don'  min'  if  I  do. 
I  don'  care,  seein'  how  it's  you. 

10.15  O'CLOCK 

"  Well !    Well !    It  does  me  good  t'  see 
Y'  back  again !    Hev  one  with  me. 
Yep.     Fillemup  again,  ol'  fel'. 
Coin'  t'  stay,  too  ?    Well,  well,  well ! 
I'm  glad  t'  hear  it.    Make  a  strike? 
Ten  thousand,  huh  ?    That's  somethin'  like ! 
Le's  see  —  how  long  y'  been  away  ? 
Since  'way  las'  June  —  or  was  it  May  ? 

10.30  O'CLOCK 

"  Le's  see  —  how  long  y'  been  away? 
Since  'way  las'  June  —  or  was  it  May? 
Well,  shay,  ol'  chap,  come  up  to  tea 
Tomorrow  mornin' ;  you  an'  me, 


27 


We're  glad  to  shee  each  ozzer  —  hey? 
I'm  glad  t'  hear  ye' re  goin'  t'  shtay, 
Le's  see  —  how  longsh  y'  been  away  ? 
Was  it  nex'  June  or  'way  las'  May? 

ii  O'CLOCK 

"  Come  on,  le's  have  annuzzer.     Shay, 
How  longsh  shay  y'  been  away? 
Le's  see  —  how  longsh  y'  been  away  ? 
Or  las'  June  ?    An'  ye're  goin'  t'  shtay  ? 
Shay !    Le's  go  home.    M'  wife,  she'll  be 
Awful  gladsh  shee  you  an'  me. 
"  Le's  see  —  how  long  y'  been  away  ? 
Since  'way  nex'  June  —  or  wash't  May  ? 

NOON 

"  Si'  down,  si'  down !    Shay !    Did  y'  shay 
How  longsh  wash  y'  been  away? 
Wash't  nex'  June  or  wash't  May? 
We're  glad  t'  shee  each  ozzer  —  hey? 
Shay !    Never  min',  now  !    Thash  all  right, 
We'll  have  breakfas'  togezzer  t'night, 
An'  supper  t'morrer  mornin'.     Shay! 
How  longsh  shay  y'  been  away  ?  " 


And  as  the  leper  with  the  bell, 

So  some  men  through  their  lives  must  bear 
Faces  that  serve  the  world  as  well 

To  tell  the  unclean  hiding  there. 
And  though  the  leper,  shunned,  conceals 

His  bell,  and  quiets  its  shrill  stroke, 
Some  quick,  unthinking  step  reveals 

Its  jingling  presence,  'neath  his  cloak. 

28 


itti'B  Almatrar 


My  Mamma  says  'at  w'en  it  rains 
'Ey're  washin'  Heaven's  window-panes 
An'  careless  angels  'ist  do  fill 
'Eir  pails  too  full  an'  'atway  spill 
Some  water  down  on  us.    'At's  w'y 
It  rains  some  days  w'en  maybe  I 
Would  like  to  play.    An'  'en  she  says 
It's  'ist  'em  angels'  carelessness 
'At  makes  'em  raindrops  fall  'at  way 
At  picnics  an'  on  circus  day. 

My  Mamma  says  'at  w'en  it  snows 

'Ey're  angels  pickin'  geese,  she  knows, 

An'  'stead  o'  usin'  'em  t'  stuff 

'Eir  pillow  cases,  'ey  'ist  puff 

An'  blow  an'  don't  clear  up  'eir  muss 

Till  all  'em  feathers  fall  on  us. 

An'  she  says  'ey  'ist  pick  'atway 

'Cuz  'ey  want  geese  f'r  Tris'mus  day, 

An'  'at's  w'y  'ere's  'e  mostes'  snow 

Right  close  t'  Tris'mus  time,  you  know. 

My  Mamma  says  w'en  wind  ist  roars 
An'  blows,  'at's  w'en  'e  angels  snores, 
But  w'en  it  lightnings,  she  says,  w'y, 
'Ey're  scratchin'  matches  on  'e  sky. 
An'  w'en  it  rumbles  'bove  our  heads 
'Ey're  movin'  furniture  an'  beds 
Up  'ere,  an'  cleanin'  house  an'  shakes 
'Eir  moth  balls  out  an'  'at's  w'at  makes 
It  hail.    An'  weather,  she  'ist  'clares 
Is  'ist  w'at  angels  does  upstairs. 


29 


The  light  that's  lost,  no  eye  shall  find ; 
No  hand  shall  stay  the  joys  that  wind 
Through  the  long  corridors  of  Time, 
Or  lure  with  lute  or  tempt  with  rhyme. 
No  cry,  no  prayer,  no  agony 
Shall  stay  the  tread  of  Time  for  thee, 
Or  call  from  dust  and  doom  away 
The  flown  delights  of  Yesterday. 


3ht  a  CittU 


'Tis  only  for  a  little  while, 

This  life,  a  mingled  sob  and  smile  ; 

The  heart  that  throbs  so  warm  today 

Tomorrow  ebbs  its  life  away. 

A  moment  hums  life's  busy  loom, 

Then  hushed  and  silent  in  the  tomb  ; 

And  wields  the  sceptre,  sob  or  smile, 

For  such  a  little,  little  while. 

Youth  rears  in  hope  a  castled  pile 
To  rise  for  such  a  little  while  ; 
Fate  lays  in  dust  its  tow'ring  walls, 
Ambitious  spires  and  gilded  halls; 
Pride's  swelling  crest,  now  plumed  high, 
Now  stricken  low,  prays  God  to  die  ; 
Time  leads  the  saddened  heart  to  smile 
In  such  a  little,  little  while. 

Life's  little  candle  feebly  glows, 
Life's  little  current  quickly  flows, 
A  moment  heaves  the  troubled  breath, 
The  candle  finds  its  socket,  Death. 


The  flushing  cheek,  the  radiant  eye, 
Dim,  lustreless,  and  cold  shall  lie, 
And  yet  those  pallid  lips  shall  smile 
With  God  in  such  a  little  while. 


A  iltslafott  impression 

She  was  kissing  a  picture  —  I  saw  her,  I  saw  her, 
She  sat  at  her  desk  and  the  door  was  flung 

wide ! 
She  was  kissing  a  picture  —  Oh,  horror !     Oh, 

horror ! 

Oh,    Woman,    must    faithlessness    with    thee 
abide  ? 

She  was  kissing  a  picture,  I  know  it,  I  know  it ! 
The  love  light  upon  it  glanced  bright  from  her 

eyes ! 
Oh,  Traitress,  I'll  face  thee !     Thou'lt  show  it ! 

Thou'lt  show  it ! 

Aye,  'front  her  I  will  with  the  deed !    Then  she 
dies! 

She  was  kissing  a  picture!     She  hides  it!     She 

hides  it ! 

Down  deep  in  a  drawer  and  she's  turning  a  key. 
Now  death  and  destruction  betides  it,  betides  it ! 
And  woe  whom  it  pictures  when  he  shall  face 
me! 

She  was  kissing  a  picture !     She's  going !     She's 

going ! 

I'll  bide  till  she's  gone  and  I'll  steal  it  away ! 
Oh,  jealousy's  fury  that's  glowing,  that's  glowing 
Within  me !    Oh,  doom  that  has  found  me  this 
day! 


She  was  kissing  a  picture !    I'll  take  it,  I'll  take  it 
And  flash  in  her  face  this  damned  image  she 

loves ! 
The  desk!     It  is  locked!    Well,  I'll  break  it,  I'll 

break  it 

And  find  me  this  card  that  her  faithlessness 
proves ! 

She  was  kissing  a  picture!    I've  found  it,  I've 

found  it! 

(Be  quiet  my  heart  and  be  silent  this  moan !) 
With  letters  and  flowers  around  it,  around  it ! 
Why!    What!  !    Well,  I'm  jiggered!  !  !    The 
picture's  my  own ! 


A  Uemmtamtr?  nf  tlj?  lOnn*  pn*  (Trail 

Dead  o'  th'  night  an'  th'  moon  rose  pale 
As  th'  face  o'  th'  man  we  led  along, 

Over  the  hills  th'  long-drawn  wail 
Of  a  coyote-cry,  like  a  funeral  song. 

Never  a  man  of  us  spoke  a  word 

As  we  tramped  th'  trail  t'  th'  Lone  Pine  tree, 
But  a  wind  rose  out  o'  th'  dark  an'  stirred 

Th'  grass  o'  th'  prairies  mournfully. 

Mile  an'  a  half  fr'm  th'  ol'  log  jail 

T'  th'  Lone  Pine  tree  at  th'  Devils  Bend, 

But  a  man  don't  speed  on  his  final  trail, 
With  a  tree  an'  a  rope  at  th'  other  end. 

Two  in  front  as  we  lef  th'  jail, 

Two  behind  an'  two  at  th'  side ; 
Then  forward  march  f'r  th'  Lone  Pine  trail 

Th'  last  this  side  o'  th'  Great  Divide. 


He  walks  along  an'  he  knows  th'  plan, 
An'  seems  resigned  as  a  man  can  be ; 

F'r  a  life's  a  life,  an'  a  man's  a  man. 
A  rope's  a  rope  an'  a  tree's  a  tree. 

Give  him  a  plenty  o'  time  t'  walk, 

Don'  hurry  a  man  on  his  final  track; 

Plenty  o'  room  if  he  wants  t'  talk,  — 

F'r  he  stays  thar  when  th'  rest  come  back. 

Stan'  back,  an'  give  him  a  chance  t'  pray, 
He  needs  God's  help  in  th'  by  an'  by ; 

F'r  a  man  will  sin  an'  a  man  mus'  pay, 
But  a  man  can't  do  no  more'n  die. 

Grit  yer  teeth  f'r  th'  struggle,  Pard, 
We'll  make  it  quick  as  it  can  be  made. 

Down,  down  on  th'  other  end  thar!     Hard! 
A  man  has  sinned  an'  a  man  has  paid ! 

Th'  hills  are  grim  an'  th'  mornin's  gray, 
Thar's  somethin'  thar  'twixt  th'  sod  an'  sky. 

A  man  will  sin  an'  a  man  mus'  pay, 
But  a  man  can't  do  no  more'n  die ! 


33 


"  He  sort  o1  favors  the  Sykeses," 

Says  Ma.  lookin'  closely  at  me, 
An'  she  looks  up  at  Pa  as  if  layin'  th'  law 

An'  a-\vaitin'  fer  him  to  agree. 
(The  Sykeses.  you  know,  was  Ma's  people.) 

"  Jes'  see  that  small  mouth  an'  small  chin, 
I  don't  want  to  brag  but  he's  jes'  his  Aunt  Mag 

I  tell  ye,  right  over  agin." 

"  Walks  jes'  like  his  Uncle  Cornelius !  " 

("  He  couldn't  walk  straight  if  he  tried, 
An'  I  had  him  to  bail  'leven  times  out  o'  jail," 

Says  Pa,  in  a  sorter  aside.) 
"  Swings  along  jes'  like  him,"  Ma  says,  smilin'. 

("  He  orter  have  swung!  "  Pa  mos'  chokes, 
Fer  it  always  makes  him  jes'  a-bilin' 

When  Ma  claims  I  favor  her  folks.) 

"  Got  the  reg'lar  Sykes  disposition." 

("An'  a  devil's  own  temper  it  is," 
Says   Pa  down  beneath  his  breath,  grittin'   his 
teeth, 

And  his  dander  beginnin'  to  sizz.) 
"An'  his  hair,  well,  it's  jes'  like  Aunt  Sary's, 

Thet  married  Lige  Jenks  from  the  Mills, 
An'  his  nose  is  the  picter  o'  Mary's, 

An'  his  brow  is  th'  image  o'  Will's." 

"An'  his  voice,  he  gits  that  from  th'  Joneses, 

They're  cousins,  you  know,  down  in  Kent ; 
An'  I  guess  it  mus'  be  from  his  Aunt  Cicely 

That  he's  gittin'  his  musical  bent !  " 
An'  Pa,  well,  he  gits  mad  as  thunder 

An'  s\vears  like  a  pirate  at  sea, 
An'  says :    '"  Thank  the  Lord  that  he's  gittin'  his 
board 

And  his  clothes  and  his  lodgin'  from  me !  " 

34 


Sty?  Hm afamettt 

We're  all  alone,  'ist  Pop  an'  me, 

'Cuz  Mamma's  gone  away  somew'eres 
T'  stay  th'  longest  time ;  an'  we 

Are  all  alone;  an'  Pop  'ist  stares 
A-past  me  an'  he  never  hears 

Me  when  I  ast  w'ere  she  could  be, 
An'  both  his  eyes  are  full  o'  tears 

Wen  we're  alone,  'ist  Pop  an'  me. 

An'  after  w'ile  I  ast  him  w'y 

She  don't  come  back;  but  he  don't  know; 
An'  'en  some  way  he  starts  t'  cry 

Till  I  say,  "  Please,  Pop,  don't  cry  so." 
An'  put  my  arms  part  way  around 

His  neck  an'  hug  him,  'ist  'cuz  we 
Are  lonesome ;  he  don't  make  a  sound ; 

An'  we're  alone,  'ist  Pop  an'  me. 

An'  he  'ist  hugs  me  up  so  tight 

An'  sez  my  Mamma's  gone  so  fur 
She  won't  come  back,  but  sez  we  might 

'1st  some  day,  maybe,  go  to  her. 
An'  I  ast  w'y  can't  we  go  now 

'Cuz  we're  so  lonesome  here;  but  he 
Don't  seem  to  hear  me  ast,  somehow, 

An'  we're  alone,  'ist  Pop  an'  me. 

An'  'en  I  'ist  fergit  she's  gone 

An'  think  it's  almos'  time  fur  her 
T'  come  an'  put  th'  supper  on, 

But  w'en  Pop's  eyes  are  all  a  blur 
I  'member  'at's  she's  gone  away 

An'  can't  git  supper;  Pop  sez  he 
Ain't  hungry,  an'  I  ain't,  I  say ; 

An'  we're  alone,  'ist  Pop  an'  me. 


35 


An'  'en  Pop  rocks  me  in  his  lap 

An'  rubs  my  head,  'ist  soft  an'  kind, 
An'  asts  me  if  I'll  take  a  nap 

If  he  pulls  down  th'  parlor  blind. 
An'  in  a  little  w'ile  I  fall 

Asleep  an'  he  'ist  rocks;  but  he 
Don't  never  go  t'  sleep  at  all, 

An'  we're  alone,  'ist  Pop  an'  me. 


A  (SFtmdngiral  ifamilg 

You   may   believe    'tis   true   that   your   coursing 

blood  is  blue, 
But  science  stern  assures  us  that  all  healthy 

blood  is  red ; 
And  the  longest  pedigree  that  grows  on  a  family 

tree 
Isn't  half  as  beneficial  as  a  good,  long  head. 

You  may  refer  with  pride  to  your  ancestors,  be 
side 
Whose  fame  your  light  is  dim,  for  letters,  art, 

or  pelf, 

But  I  trust  you  will  believe  it  is  nobler  to  achieve 
Enough  that  you  may  be  some  time  an  ancestor 
yourself. 

The  watch  dog  well  who  serves  and  who  care 
fully  observes 
The   strangers  who  approach  and  wakes  the 

family  with  his  bark, 

Tho'  he  had  no  pedigree  is  a  better  dog  for  me 
Than  the  dog  that  sleeps,  e'en  tho'  his  ancestors 
were  in  the  Ark. 


It  is  right  that  you  admire,  and  admiring,  you 

aspire 

To  trace  a  noble  pathway  in  your  genealogy, 
But  permit  me  to  assure  that  no  person,  rich  or 

poor, 

Ever   plucked    a   plum   of   greatness    off   the 
grandest  family  tree. 

The  man  who  is  a  king,  duke,  or  lord,  or  anything 
That's  noble,  tho'  his  ancestors  were  cobblers 

at  the  last, 
Has  a  much  more  honored  way  in  this  little  world 

today 

Than  the  cobbler  whose  ancestors  governed 
kingdoms  in  the  past. 

And  full  many  a  man  today,  to  whom  honor  we 

might  pay, 

Has  been  overcome  in  living  up  to  a  proud  an 
cestry  ; 
And  full  many  a  man  been  laid  in  an  everlasting 

shade 

By  the  branches  of  a  towering,  spreading,  an 
cient  family  tree. 

So  don't  take  it  much  to  heart  when  a  man  takes 

you  apart 
And  tells  you  he  was  bred  'mid  aristocracy's 

environs ; 
Tho'  his  ancestors  came  o'er  in  the  Mayflower  to 

this  shore, 

The  log  book,  still,  may  show  that  every  one 
came  o'er  in  irons. 


37 


3lf  f  *  (§nlg  ^ah  a 


You've  seen  him  —  'course  you  have  —  the  man 

who  might  have  been  so  great, 
If  he'd  had  the  inclination  and  could  only  struck 

his  gait; 
Who's  afeard  to  work  in  summer  when  the  tem- 

per'ture  is  riz, 
And  who  can't  work  in  the  winter,  'cause  he's  got 

the  rheumatiz  ; 
Who  goes  through  life  complainin',   'cause  the 

good  things  pass  him  by, 
An'  a-tellin'  what  he  could  do,  if  he'd  only  half 

way  try; 
The  man  that  in  the  race  of  life  is  joggin'  'way 

behind, 
But  who  might  'a'  led  the  winners,  if  he'd  only 

had  a  mind. 

When  I  hear  a  feller  tellin'  'bout  the  great  things 

he  could  do, 
If  he  felt  like,  allus  makes  me  think  of  our  old 

Bobby  Blue; 
A  great,  big,  strappin'  feller,  but  at  workin'  he 

was  slack, 
'Cause  he  had  a  sunstroke  once  and  was  afeard 

he'd  bring  it  back. 
But  Lor!    I  guess  there's  nothin'  that  was  ever 

yet  to  do, 
But  Bobby  could  'a'  done  it,  if  he'd  really  wanted 

to. 
You'd  have  to  scour  the  universe  with  fine  toothed 

combs  to  find 
A  man  to  beat  him  workin'  —  if  he'd  only  had  a 

mind. 


I've  seen  him  sittin'  evenin's  on  an  old  three- 
legged  chair, 
His  pants  all  rags  and  patches  and  with  both  his 

elbows  bare, 

A-scrapin'  an  old  fiddle  till  he'd  allus  weary  us, 
Screw  up  the  pegs,  an'  cross  his  legs,  an'  look 

mysterious. 
Then,  winkin'  confidential  like,  he'd  say :   "  Don't 

say  a  word. 
But  I  got  the  greatest  idee  that  you  ever  seen  or 

heard. 
It's  for  a  patent  right;  you  boys  jest  keep  still 

and  you'll  find 
I  kin  make  it  worth  a  million  —  if  I  only  got  a 

mind." 

Again  I've  seen  him  sittin',  with  the  people  passin' 

by, 

A-chewin'  cheap  tobacco  and  a-spittin'  at  a  fly ; 
And  he'd  point  ovit  the  rich  merchant  that  he 

might  'a'  had  as  clerk, 
And  the  house  he  might  'a'  lived  in,  if  he'd  had  a 

mind  to  work  ; 
And  the  girls  he  might  'a'  married,  if  he'd  had  a 

mind  to  try; 
And  the  teams  he  might  'a'  driven,  that  went 

swif 'ly  steppin'  by ; 
And  the  gems  he  might  'a'  sparkled,  and  the  way 

he  might  'a'  shined, 
With  an  independent  fortune  —  if  he'd  only  had 

a  mind. 

One  night  we  went  together  to  th'  op'ry-house 
to  hear 

A  way-up  concert  company  that  was  goin'  to  ap 
pear. 


39 


They  had  the  finest  fiddler  there  that  ever  tuned 
a  string, 

An'  the  noises  that  he  imitated  jest  beat  every 
thing. 

At  first  he  had  us  laughin',  an'  next  time  he  made 
us  cry, 

An'  he  player!  bird  songs  so  life-like  you  could 
almost  see  'em  fly  ; 

An'  Bobby  sit  and  yawned  and  blinked,  and  fi 
nally  opined 

He  could  beat  him  all  to  thunder  —  if  he  only  had 
a  mind. 

Th'  last  time  I  saw  Bobby  he  was  purty  nigh  the 

end, 
A-sufFrin'  from  the  fever  an'  he  didn't  seem  to 

mend. 
The  doctor  gave  him  pills  and  things,  but  didn't 

do  no  good. 
He  said  he'd  never  get  well  and  old  Bobby  swore 

he  would. 
Doc   was   a-feelin'   of   his   pulse  —  'twas   beatin' 

mighty  slow, 
Says  he :    "  It's   only   forty,   and   that's   runnin' 

mighty  low." 
An'  Bobby  says,  says  he:    "It  may  be  runnin' 

'way  behind, 
But  I  could  run  her  up  to  ninety  —  if  I  only  had 

a  mind." 

I  can  see  him  standin',  peerin'  at  the  gates  of 

Paradise, 
With  a  sort  o'  leerin',  sneerin'-like  expression  in 

his  eyes. 
I  can  see  him  sizin'  up  the  gate,  an'  then  I  see 

him  feel 
The  gold  an'  pearly  trimmin's  and  a-wonderin' 

if  they're  real ; 

40 


I  can  see  him  steppin'  through  an'  takin'  in  the 

sights  inside ; 
I  can  hear  him  tellin'  Peter  what  he  could  do  if 

he  tried ; 
An'  his  drawlin'  voice  a-sayin'  that,  while  things 

was  mighty  fine, 
He  could  build  a  blame  sight  better  —  if  he  only 

had  a  mind. 


In  a  New  England  commonwealth,  while  knock 
ing  'round  for  strength  and  health, 

I  boarded  with  a  widow  dame  (of  course  I  can't 
disclose  her  name), 

An  acid  creature,  gaunt  and  grim,  who  lived 
alone  with  one  son,  Jim. 

A  freckled,  awkward,  red-haired  chap,  not  reared 
exactly  in  the  lap 

Of  luxury,  or  taught  to  know  affection's  honeyed 
overflow. 

And  oft  my  rose-hued  fancy's  dreams  were  rudely 
shattered  by  the  screams 

Wild  from  the  wood-shed  forth  which  came.  And 
then  my  stern,  ascetic  dame, 

Smoothing  the  wrinkles  from  her  lap  and  waving 
high  a  leathern  strap, 

Emerged,  and  said  in  accents  grim :  "  Feel  better 
now,  I've  paddled  Jim." 

Day  in,  day  out,  that  same  assault,  whate'er  the 

wrong  or  whose  the  fault. 
If  any  boarder  sought  by  night  to  liquidate  his 

debt  in  flight, 
My  acid  widow  from  her  grief  in  flogging  Jim 

found  swift  relief. 


Whene'er  in  anger,  'twas  her  wont  to  strap  that 

awkward  little  runt. 
The  beef  was  tough,  the  bread  was  burned  —  at 

once  my  lady  quickly  turned, 
Until  she  spied  the  trembling  Jim ;  her  claw-like 

fingers  gobbled  him, 
Swift  to  the  wood-shed  bore  him  out,  aloft  she 

swung  her  leathern  knout, 
And  then  emerged,  tall,  sour,  and  grim :    "  Feel 

better  now,  I've  paddled  Jim." 

Poor  Jim,  a  child  of  sores  and  salve,  served  as  a 
constant  safety  valve. 

Perhaps  my  lady  angered  came  from  quarrel  with 
some  neighbor  dame ; 

Or  worsted  in  some  church  debate ;  arose,  per 
chance,  a  little  late ; 

The  butcher's  bill  was  deemed  too  large ;  the  gro 
cer's  trifling  overcharge 

Conspired  to  rouse  my  lady's  ire;  her  lips  were 
drawn,  her  eyes  flashed  fire ; 

Straightway  the  luckless  Jim  was  sought,  the 
strap  from  out  the  kitchen  brought, 

Jim  laid  across  his  mother's  lap;  shrill  whistled 
then  the  leathern  strap. 

Until  she  breathed  in  accents  grim:  "  Feel  bet 
ter  now,  I've  paddled  Jim." 

But  once  my  lady's  accents  shrill  were  silenced ; 

she  was  stricken  ill. 
Her  lungs  distressed,  she  strove  for  breath,  and 

hovered  between  life  and  death. 
The  doctors  pondered  in  dismay;  they  held  no 

hope  and  saw  no  way 
To  save  my  lady's  life.     More  grim  and  gaunt 

she  grew,  and  little  Jim 
Was  called  to  say  his  last  good-bye.     She  spied 

him  with  a  brighter  eye, 

42 


Swift  seized  him,  drew  him  'cross  her  lap,  and 
called  the  nurse  to  bring  the  strap. 

At  eve  the  doctor,  calling  'round,  miraculous  im 
provement  found. 

"  I  feel,"  she  whispered  low  to  him,  "  much  bet 
ter  since  I  paddled  Jim." 


JJoet  atth  fbaaant 

He  was  a  simple  countryman,  a  genial  soul  and 
kind. 

The  evening  was  poetic,  and  to  imagery  inclined, 

I  gazed  out  o'er  the  stream  and  field.  "  How 
musical  the  leaves  !  " 

I  cried.  "  What  web  of  melody  their  subtle  rus 
tling  weaves ! 

The  crystal  waters  murmur  down  the  banks  of 
moss  and  fern, 

Adown  the  vale  the  sombre  wail  of  lingering 
loon  or  hern. 

Shrill,  shrill  the  cry  of  night  birds  high,  forth- 
floating  in  the  air, 

And  fairy  footfalls  trip  and  tinkle  where  the  fleece 
floats  there, 

In  boundless  billows  of  the  unflecked,  azure  sea 
of  blue. 

I  listen.  Aye,  I  hear  them,  nearly !  Nay,  and 
do  not  you  ?  " 

"  I  b'lieve  I  do  hear  suthin',"  he  replied,  "  down 

in  the  bogs ; 
An'  mebbe  it  is  fairies,  but  mos'  likely  it  is  hogs." 


43 


"  See !    See  !  "  I  cried.    "  The  streaming  splendor 

streaking  o'er  the  sky, 
Where  chariots  of  cloud  on   starry  wheels  are 

rolling  by. 
See  the  auroral  beams  that  stream  from  zenith 

to  the  sea, 
Where  dies  away  the  twilight  gray  and   Xight 

reigns  full  and  free. 
The  yellow  moonlight's  misty  glow  gilds  all  the 

scene  around, 
Her  jeweled  rays  fall  now  ablaze  the  hills  —  the 

Night  is  cro\vned 

With  her  own  queenly  diadem ;  the  bright,  au 
roral  light 
Is  Splendor's  gorgeous  setting  for  the  sable  cloak 

of  Night. 
In  thy  mind's  eye  canst  not  descry  the  picture  as 

I  call : 
The  Queen  of  Night,  the  crown  of  light,  the  sable 

cloak,  and  all?" 

The   night's   own    splendor   dazzled    him.       His 

sleepy  eye  he  rolled. 
"  Doggone    them    sun    dogs !  "    then    he    said. 

"  They're  alwus  bringin'  cold !  " 


Not  the  mysterious  music  of  the  heights, 
The  grandeur  of  harmony  whose  eagling  flights 
\Ving  us  to  clouds  dim,  distant,  dark,  and  dull. 
Give  us  the  simple  songs  that,  free  and  full, 
Find  echo  in  our  hearts,  as  when  we  lift 
The  lattice,  that  through  all  the  house  may  drift 
The  red-robed  robin's  twittering  song,  that  wings 
Its  flight  by  the  vined  window  as  it  sings. 

44 


ifr,  £0ti?,  anil 


Living  and  loving  and  dying, 

Life  is  complete  in  the  three. 
Smiling  or  sobbing  or  sighing, 

Which  is  for  you  or  for  me? 
Hoping  and  struggling  and  striving, 

Dreaming  success  by  and  by; 
But  whether  we're  driven  or  driving, 

We  live  and  we  love  and  we  die. 

Aiming  and  hitting  and  missing, 

Life  is  complete  in  the  three. 
The  fickle  world  praising  or  hissing, 

Which  is  for  you  or  for  me? 
Striding  or  limping  or  creeping, 

Time  drives  us  heartlessly  by; 
Meeting  and  parting  and  weeping, 

We  live  and  we  love  and  we  die. 

Yearning,  rejoicing,  and  mourning, 

Life  is  complete  in  the  three. 
Sackcloth  or  garland  adorning, 

Which  is  for  you  or  for  me? 
The  web  of  our  little  day,  stretched, 

Meshes  a  sob  or  a  sigh; 
Joyful  or  joyless  or  wretched, 

We  live  and  we  love  and  we  die. 

Wishing  and  fearing  and  fretting, 

Life  is  complete  in  the  three. 
The  world's  remembrance  or  forgetting, 

Which  is  for  you  or  for  me? 
Gnarled  and  knotted  and  tangled 

The  skeins  of  our  little  lives  lie; 
Mud-spattered  or  jewel-bespangled, 

We  live  and  we  love  and  we  die. 


45 


Gutter 

Grieve  ye  not.     The  flowers  are  not  dead, 
Their  beauty  fades  but  for  a  little  while. 

Grieve  ye  not.    The  leafless  branches  spread, 
The    Mother,    Spring,    shall   waken   with   her 
smile. 

Grieve  ye  not.    Tho'  still  the  fettered  lake, 
Ice-locked  and  silent,  voiceless,  cold,  and  gray. 

The  Spring  again  its  melody  shall  wake. 
And  all  its  waves  shall  whisper  to  the  day. 


Grieve  ye  not.    If  from  the  sea  and  sky 

From  earth  and  air  a  whisper  wings  to  thee, 

And  tells  thee  thou  asleep  in  Death  shalt  lie, 
Spring  smiles  and  teaches  thee  Eternity. 


5fy*  GJgtnr'0 

Friends  are  but  bubbles  in  a  bowl, 
Mere  empty  things,  devoid  of  soul, 
Reflecting  but  what  shines  upon; 
A  puff  of  wind  and  —  pish !    They're  gone. 

Now  see !     So  carefully  I've  wrought 
To  raise  and  fashion  one  from  naught. 
A  passing  gust !     A  zephyr  veers ! 
My  bubble  bursts  and  disappears. 

I  sit  and  gaze  at  one  I've  made 
Reflecting  gems  of  light  and  shade, 
When,  lo,  it  bursts!     The  friendship  flies 
And  leaves  but  soap  dust  in  my  eyes. 


46 


So  thick  they  cluster,  bright  they  shine, 

So  delicate,  clear-hued,  and  fine, 

So  fair,  so  fine  —  to  look  upon, 

But  brush  so  lightly  —  puff !    They're  gone  ! 


An  $p-OImmtrg 

I  ain't  on  good  terms  'ith  Wilson;  he  ain't  on 

good  terms  'ith  me. 
Neighbored  fer  nigh  onto  ten  years,  friendly  as 

friendly  could  be, 
An'  then  fell  out  over  a  horse  trade,  crooked  as 

ever  you  see. 

Wilson,  he  owned  a  big  ches'nut  trotter  —  a 
spankin'  fine  horse. 

Used  to  go  splittin'  th'  breezes  'long  of  a  quar 
ter-mile  course, 

Fine  lookin'  animal,  Stranger;  plenty  o'  gimp, 
speed,  and  force. 

I  had  a  pacer  could  go  some;  bright  bay,  almost 

a  blood-red, 
Nobby  an'   stylish  fer  light  work,  groomed  to 

a  shine,  an'  well  fed, 
But  a  durn  nasty  habit  o'  balkin',  when  th'  notion 

got  into  her  head. 

Wilson  druv  over  one  mornin' ;  sez  t'  me,  sez 

he :    "  Say,  Win, 
Wisht  y'd  come  'long  'ith  yer  stop-watch,  held 

fer  a  quarter-mile  spin." 
Had  th'  big  ches'nut  hitched  up  t'  a  road-cart  an', 

sez  he :   "  Jump  in !  " 


47 


Say!  He  showed  speed  fer  that  quarter!  Fast 
as  I  ever  see  made! 

"Wilson,"  sez  I,  "he's  a  winner;  puts  my  bay 
horse  in  th'  shade." 

He  sez  to  me,  sez  he :  "  Winston,  how'd  y'  con 
sider  a  trade? 

"  I  ain't  a  fast-horse  man,  Winston ;  I  ain't  jes' 

nachelly  fit 
T'  own  sech  a  stepper  as  this  is ;  that  is  th'  reason 

of  it." 
He  talked  so  almighty  hones'  I  thought  that  he 

was  —  an'  I  bit ! 

Seemed  like  a  sin  when  I  guv  him  some  cash  an' 

that  balky  ol'  bay ; 
Sort    o'    like    robbin'    th'    feller  —  giving    him 

swamp-grass  fer  hay ; 
But  tradin'  of  horses  is  tradin'  —  an'  that's  about 

all  there's  t'  say. 

It  happened  in  county-fair  season ;  I  druv  over 
there  th'  same  day, 

Entered  my  horse  in  th'  races,  chucklin'  th'  whole 
of  th'  way, 

An'  found  when  I  got  there  that  Wilson  had  en 
tered  th'  race  'ith  my  bay. 

He  grinned  when  he  see  me  a-comin'  a-drivin' 

his  ches'nut,  an'  I 
Fer  th'  life  o'  me  couldn't  help  laughin'  t'  think 

o'  th'  fun,  by  an'  by, 
When  he  druv  that  ol'  bay  in  th'  races  an'  found 

out  her  weakness !    My,  my ! 


Nex'  day  when  th'  free-for-all  started,  my  ches'- 

nut  shot  into  fust  place, 
Went   t'   th'   quarter   like   lightnin' —  th'   wa'n't 

nothin'  else  in  th'  race, 
Went  at  a  two  minute  clip,  sir,  but  couldn't  stand 

up  t'  th'  pace. 

Fer  when  we  got  up  t'  th'  quarter,  my  ches'nut 
went  down  on  his  knees, 

Gaspin'  fer  breath  ev'ry  minute,  with  an  on- 
healthy  sort  of  a  sneeze. 

Wind-broken !  Yes,  sir,  by  thunder !  Had  a 
regular  wind-broken  wheeze ! 

Mad !     I  was  mad  as  a  hatter !     Mad  till  I  jes' 

couldn't  talk. 
But  I  looked  down  th'  track  at  th'  starters,  an' 

there  stood  th'  bay  at  a  balk, 
While  a  crow-bait  from  down  in  th'  country  was 

winnin'  th'  race  in  a  walk. 

I  ain't  on  good  terms  'ith  Wilson;  he  ain't  'ith 

me,  as  y'  see. 
Neighbored  fer  nigh  onto  ten  years,  friendly  as 

friendly  could  be. 
He  says  I  done  him  dirt  in  a  horse  trade;  I  say 

that  he  done  it  t'  me. 


49 


JitHB  ofabbg  Saitl* 

"  So  Lidy  Thomas  wants  a  girl  f'r  housework ! 

Well,  I  do  declare 
That  woman  never  keeps  one  more'n  two  weeks ! 

Somethin'  wrong  up  there ! 
I  heerd  her  las'  girl  tellin'  how  she  didn't  git 

enough  to  eat, 
But  that  was  only  servants'  talk  —  sech  gossip 

as  I  won't  repeat! 
An'  Lucy  Brown  is  gone  to  teachin'  music  down 

at  Bridger's  Dell 
An'  quit  the  church  as  organist!    Well,  I  allow 

it's  just  as  well, 
From  what  I've  heerd  about  her  bein'  mighty 

sweet  on  Parson  Brooks ; 
An'  him  a  married  man !   I  say  there's  danger  in 

too  much  good  looks ! 

"  Joe  Gudger's  married !     Well,  I  vow  if  sech 

rapscallious  folks  as  him 
Can  find  a  partner  f'r  their  joys  my  chances  ain't 

so  mighty  slim ! 
Close !     Why,  his  first  wife's  sister  says   she'll 

swear  it  with  her  dyin'  breath 
Joe  Gudger  was  so  stingy  that  his  first  wife  sim 
ply  starved  to  death ! 
Another  party  up  at  Blake's!     My,  how  some 

folks  can  put  on  airs 
An'  snub  their  betters  puzzles  me !    Why,  Toby 

Toser's  clerk  declares 
They   owe    f'r   three    months'    groceries  —  they 

never  pay  and  never  will ; 
An'  Toby's  wore  a  pair  o'  shoes  out  goin'  up  to 

git  th'  bill ! 


"  Jane  Hitchcock  an'  that  gawky  Burns  hev  gone 

an'  married !    Well,  I  do 

Declare  it's  time  he  popped  to  her  if  ever  he  in 
tended  to ! 
He's  been  her  stiddy  beau  eight  years  an'  but  f'r 

Jim  Burns  I  allow 
She  might  'a'  been  a  happy  wife  an'  had  a  family 

by  now ! 
An'  Ezry  Cowles  's  got  th'  grip !    Well,  if  it  cost 

a  cent  t'  git 
Y'  can  mark  down  that  Ezry  Cowles  'd  be  a  long 

time  gittin'  it ! 
There's  only  one  thing  that  would  tempt  that  man 

t'  quit  this  life  o'  sin, 
An'  that  would  be  a  cut-rate  sale  on  coffins,  with 

a  hearse  throwed  in. 

"  Lem  Wilson's  addin'  to  his  house !     I  wonder 

where  poor  Lem'll  git 
Th'  cash.    Ain't  got  th'  mor'gage  paid  he  had  to 

put  on  t'other,  yit. 
Now  that's  what  comes  fr'm  weddin'  style ;  Lem 

was  a  thrifty,  savin'  soul 
Until  he  married  that  Sue  Clay,  an'  she's  just 

goin'  through  him  whole ! 
Tod  White  is  dead.     Poor  Tod !     His  chance  o' 

reachin'  Heaven  's  mighty  slim. 
But  bein'  as  he's  dead  I  won't  be  one  to  say  no 

bad  of  him. 

Th'  paper's  sort  o'  runnin'  down,  at  least  accord- 
in'  to  my  views; 
I  don't  know  as  I  ever  see  th'  Weekly  with  so 

little  news." 


QJJj*  loroabl?  ICass  of  %  (groudtg  G-Hh  f&m 

A  grouchy  and  crotchety,  fussy  old  man, 

Whose  stick  on  the  walk  beats  a  rat-a-tat-tat, 
The  cut  of  his  coat  on  an  old-fashioned  plan, 

A  shiny  red  nose  and  a  worn  beaver  hat. 
A  blare  of  defiance,  he  trumpets  his  nose, 

He  clears  his  hoarse  throat  with  a  he-he-he- 
hem  ! 
But  the  girl  on  his  arm,  she's  as  fair  as  a  rose, 

How  grew  such  a  flower  on  such  a  gnarled 
stem? 

He  bushes  his  eyebrows  and  scowls  upon  me, 

His  stick  with  a  click  beats  the  walk  as  we  pass, 
His  scowl  wastes  the  bloom  of  a  smile  that  I  see 

And  freezes  it  stiff  on  the  lips  of  the  lass. 
He  raises  his  hat  with  a  Chesterfield  air, 

The  sweep  of  his  arm  is  chill  courtesy's  sign ; 
But  his  eyes  pass  me  by  with  an  unseeing  stare. 

If  blood  were  for  spilling,  he'd  dabble  in  mine. 

There's  pride  in  the  white  crest,  uplifted  so  high, 

Defiant  the  tilt  of  the  old  beaver  hat. 
Contempt  in  the  stare  of  the  unknowing  eye, 

And  the  click  of  his  stick  \vith  its  rat-a-tat-tat. 
He  spurns  me,  he  scorns  me,  he  hates  me,  —  he 
knows 

I'm  nursing  in  secret  some  pilfering  plan 
To  pluck  from  its  parental  arbor  the  rose 

That  rests  on  the  arm  of  this  fussy  old  man. 

So  he  passes  me  by  with  an  unseeing  stare, 
His  cane  beats  defiantly  rat-a-tat-tat. 

He  trumpets  his  nose  with  a  furious  blare, 
There's  pride  in  the  tilt  of  his  worn  beaver 
hat. 


Love  may  laugh  at  locksmiths,  nor  hazard  a  care 
In  bridging  most  gulfs  of  despair  with  a  span, 

But  Love  needs  more  courage  than  mine  has,  I 

swear, 
To  laugh  at  this  crotchety,  fussy  old  man. 


A  Qlrttirtam 

A  damsel  stood  upon  the  stage, 

A  stage-worn  damsel  she. 
A  critic  sat  and  heard  her  sing, 

A  world-worn  critic  he. 

"  I'm  saddest  when  I  sing,"  she  sang, 

A  tear  stood  in  her  eye. 
He  sighed,  the  wretch,  and  murmured  to 

Himself:    "And  so  am  I." 

"  I  cannot  sing  the  old  songs," 

She  sang.     Sighed  he  —  "  'Tis  true, 

Two  kinds  of  songs  you  cannot  sing, 
The  old  ones  —  and  the  new." 

"  Oh,  for  a  thousand  tongues  to  sing 

I'd  give  my  eyes,"  he  hears. 
"And  I,"  he  murmured,  "  had  you  them, 
Would  give  away  my  ears." 

"  Had  I  the  wings  of  any  dove," 

She  sang,  "  I  would  rejoice." 
He  muttered :    "  You  could  make  them  from 

The  feathers  in  your  voice." 


53 


Says  he  to  me,  says  he,  one  night, 
A-shiverin'  with  mortal  fright, 
An'  twistin'  of  his  handkerchief, 
A-tremblin',  shakin'  like  a  leaf, 

Says  he  to  me,  says  he : 
"  Maria,"  sort  o'  halted  then, 
An'  coughed,  an'  then  began  again, 
"  Maria,  I've  got  somethin'  here 
That  for  as  much  as  'leven  year 

I've  tried  t'  say  t'  ye." 

My!     My!     My  heart  jes'  beat  an'  beat, 
When  he  come  up  an'  took  his  seat 
Right  nex'  t'  me  an'  took  my  hand, 
An'  when  he  squeezed  it  —  Oh,  my  land ! 

I  was  jes'  all  unstrung. 
So  then  I  says  to  him,  says  I 
To  him,  says  I :   "  What  is  it,  Si  ?  " 
An'  I  jes'  set  an'  set  an'  set 
An'  sort  o'  fearful  like,  an'  yet 

So  glad  he'd  found  his  tongue. 

An'  then  he  says  to  me,  says  he, 
A-sort  o'  sof  an'  tremblin  ly, 
"  Maria  "  —  an'  I  set  an'  set, 
A-wonderin'  if  he'd  never  get 

Aroun'  t'  any  more. 
'N  then  I  says  to  him,  says  I 
To  him,  I  sa'ys :   "  What  is  it,  Si  ? 
I  b'lieve  you  were  addressin'  me  ?  " 
An'  Si  he  set  there  silently, 

As  bad  off  as  before. 

An'  then  I  says  to  him,  says  I, 
"A  lovely  evenin',  ain't  it,  Si? 
Jes'  seems  to  sort  o'  lift  ye  'bove 
Yerself  an'  make  ye  think  o'  love." 

54 


My!     I  was  gettin'  bold! 
An'  Si,  he  got  so  mortal  'fraid, 
I  thought  he'd  run,  but,  no,  he  staid, 
An'  then  he  says :   "  My  hens  they  lay 
Nigh  fifteen  dozen  eggs  today." 

An'  that  was  all  he  told. 

My!     My!     My  blood  run  hot  an'  cold, 
T'  think  that  he  could  sit  an'  hold 
My  hand,  an'  be  so  mortal  'fraid 
He'd  talk  'bout  eggs  his  hens  had  laid. 

So  then  I  says,  says  I, 
"If  that  is  what  ye've  tried  to  tell 
For  'leven  years,  ye've  told  it  well." 
An'  Si,  he  says :    "  How  could  ye  say 
That,  when  them  eggs  only  today 

Was  laid.    'Taint  that,"  says  Si. 

So  there  we  set  an'  set  an'  set 
Till  I  jes'  got  so  desperate 
My  nerves  was  all  a-flutterin' 
To  see  him  set  a-stutterin' 

An'  me  in  sech  suspense. 
An'  then  I  says  to  him,  says  I, 
"  Was  it  somethin'  about  me,  Si  ?  " 
An'  he  said :   "  Yep !  —  I  wonder  how 
That  everlastin'  brindle  cow 

Broke  through  my  pasture  fence?" 

An'  then  I  says,  an'  sort  o'  slow : 
"  Si,  was  that  'leven  years  ago, 
An'  hev  ye  been  so  mortal  'fraid 
To  tell  me  that  before  ?  "  I  said, 
Somewhat  sarcastic'ly. 


55 


An'  Si,  he  says :   "  Why,  course  it  wa'n't, 
I  jes'  chanced  to  be  thinkin'  on't, 
An'  wonderin'  how  that  critter  got 
Through  that  fence,  when  them  posts  was  sot 
So  tarnal  deep,"  says  he. 

My  goodness  me!     I  never  see 
A  man  need  help  so  much  as  he, 
But  I  kep'  patient,  an'  says  I : 
"Is  it  somethin'  ye're  wantin',  Si?" 

An'  he  says :   "  Yep.    It  be  !  " 
I  knew  my  chance  was  mighty  slim 
If  I  sh'd  set  an'  wait  for  him, 
An'  so  I  jes'  cast  all  aside 
My  nat'ral  modesty  an'  pride, 

An'  says:    "  Si,  was  it  me?  " 

Well,  say !    If  ye  could  see  Si  throw 

His  arms  'bout  me !     "  How  did  ye  know  ?  " 

Says  he.    An'  then  he  says  to  me  — 

Oh,  jes'  as  sweet  an'  lovin'ly, 

With  sech  a  happy  smile : 
"  Maria,  jes'  as  sure  as  fate, 
I  knew  that  if  I'd  only  wait, 
Xo  odds  how  many  times  I'd  flunk, 
Thet  some  time  I'd  jes'  get  up  spunk 

To  tell  ve  after  while." 


A  Htaton  nf  %  ICtttI*  (Emmtnj  (Zfaimt 

lie  sits  there  at  the  fireside,  where  the  mellow 

light  is  gleaming 
O'er  the  columns  of  the  little  country  paper 

that  he  holds, 
And  something  he  has  read  there  seems  to  set 

his  fancy  dreaming, 
While  memory's  panorama  of  forgotten  days 

unfolds. 
Its  quaint  and  homely  phrases  all  incline  him  to 

reflection ; 
Some  sweetness  of  enchantment  as  he  lays  the 

paper  down 
Strips  the  bitter  peel  of  sorrow  from  the  fruit  of 

recollection, 

He  tastes  the  mellow  sweetness  of  the  little 
country  town. 

He  sees,  at  even,  a  cottage  where  the  lamplight's 

dimly  straying 
Through  the  window,  thickly  bowered  with  the 

honeysuckle  vine ; 
To  his  ears  come  strains  of  music  —  there's  a 

sound  of  someone  playing 
On  a  little  cottage  organ  and  the  notes  of  Auld 

Lang  Syne. 
He  hears  the  tea  things  clatter,  sees  a  woman's 

figure  flitting 
Here   and   there,   belike   some   fairy,   and  the 

shimmer  of  her  gown ; 
And  longing  leads  his  fancy  to  the  place  where 

he  is  sitting 

Just  across  from  her  at  table  in  the  little  coun 
try  town. 


57 


What  spell  lies  on  its  columns?    There  rise  lusty 

tones  and  laughing, 
A  rioting  of  young  folks  through  the  open 

parlor  door, 
The  place  resounds  with  revelry  and  badinage 

and  chaffing; 
Someone  has  brought  his  fiddle  from  the  little 

country  store. 
The  merry  songs  from  lad  and  lass  in  lusty  tones 

are  swelling, 
The  sparkling  cider  passes  in  the  earthen  jug 

and  brown ; 
What   silver-throated   eloquence   of   memory   is 

telling 

The  story  of  the  glory  of  the  little  country 
town? 

Yet  he  sits  here  alone,  where  all  the  dreamy 

shadows  dancing, 
And  silent,  save  for  voices  that  his  memory 

may  hear; 
The  eyes  that  o'er  the  columns  of  the  little  paper 

glancing, 
Like  violets,  dew-misted,  in  the  passing  of  a 

tear. 
For  some,  as  he,  are  missing  from  the  circle  once 

unbroken, 

And  one  he  knows  lies  sleeping  where  the  au 
tumn  leaves  are  brown; 
His  hair  is  white,  like  silver,  yet  in  fancy  he  has 

spoken 

With  all  those   lads  and  lasses  of  the  little 
country  town. 

The  misty  eye  of  sorrow  at  the  bush  of  dreams 

is  seeking 

The  rose  of  recollection  with  the  fragrance  of 
its  morn, 

58 


And  in  the  ear  of  memory  the  voice  of  grief  is 

speaking  — 
The  hand  that  plucks  the  blossom  knows  the 

sharpness  of  the  thorn. 
His  dreams  die  with  the  embers  at  the  fireplace 

—  ah,  the  pity ! 
The  paper  falls  from  listless  hands  and  idly 

flutters  down. 
How  lonely,  lonely,  lonely  is  the  sullen,  smokj 

city, 

When  the  heart  has  come  from  straying  in  the 
little  country  town ! 


tlj?  (Start 

Young  Silas  Watkins  stole  a  ham  —  a  theft  most 
reprehensible, 

And  then  engaged  a  counselor  (which  certainly 
was  sensible). 

They  plunged  him  in  a  dungeon  deep,  a  dungeon 
grim  and  terrorful, 

The  while  his  lawyer  went  to  court  upon  a  mis 
sion  errorful. 

And  when  he  found  at  once  the  whole  proceed 
ing  could  be  "  busted,"  he 

Sued  out  a  habeas  corpus  and  took  Silas  out  of 
custody. 

In  court  his  learned  counsel  urged  with  dignified 

suavity 
The  dangers  of  unseemly  haste  in  matters  of  such 

gravity. 

The  prosecution's  bitterness  he  held  unjustifiable, 
"  'Tis  Justice,  with  her  blinded  eyes,  before  whom 

we  are  triable !  " 


59 


And  after  hours  of  argument,  with  growing  heat 

and  frictional, 
He  took  a  change  of  venue  on  a  question  juris- 

dictional. 

Whereat  the  counsel  got  a  stay  of  trial  for  a  year 
or  two, 

To  find  a  missing  witness  (who  was  dead,  I  have 
a  fear  or  two). 

The  years  rolled  on,  they  tried  him,  and  unmer 
cifully  depicted  him 

The  commonest  of  larcenists;  the  jury  then  con 
victed  him. 

"  No  chance  for  Silas  !  "  cried  his  lawyer.  "  Yes, 
I  say,  indeed  he  has !  " 

Upon  the  which  he  went  to  court  and  got  a  super- 
sedeas. 

"  Good  cheer !  "  said  he  to  Silas.  "  You  will 
soon  be  on  your  feet  again." 

While  Silas  gave  a  bail  bond  and  was  straight 
way  on  the  street  again. 

A  monstrous  abstract  then  they  filed,  the  lawyer 
made  a  noise  and  fuss, 

Until,  within  a  year  or  two,  the  court  gave  them 
a  syllabus, 

Which,  stripped  of  all  its  verbiage  and  law  and 
technicality, 

But  reaffirmed  the  verdict  based  on  Silas'  proved 
rascality. 

"  Odds  blood !  "  cried  Silas'  counsel  to  his  client, 

"  When  I've  read  you  this, 
You'll  see  the  entire  finding  simply  reeks  with 

flaws  and  prejudice. 
To  jail  shall  any  citizen  for  stealing  of  a  hock  be 

sent?" 


60 


Straightway  the  which  he  went  to  court  and 
filed  another  document. 

"  No  sheriff  shall  arrest  him,  sir,  on  any  legal 
sham  as  grim 

As  this,  and  if  a  sheriff  tries,  I'll  certainly  man 
damus  him !  " 

Again  upon  the  solemn  court,  with  masterful 
urbanity, 

He  urged  a  close  inquiry  by  an  expert  on  in 
sanity. 

Who  felt  the  bumps  on  Silas'  head,  who  found 
profound  rascality, 

Who  in  a  year  made  his  report  of  "  obvious  nor 
mality." 

Long  Silas'  counsel  studied  it,  by  methods  not 
revealable, 

And  finally  concluded  the  decision  was  appeal 
able. 

Good  Silas  gave  another  bond  to  stay  his  jail 
processional ; 

Good  Silas'  counsel  labored  with  an  ardor  quite 
professional, 

Until  he  got  an  order  from  the  highest  court 
available, 

"  (That,  as  the  statutes  read,  there  was  a  ques 
tion  if  'twas  jailable,) 

The  court  below  should  try  again,  and  though 
they  might  acquit  it,  or 

Convict  it,  they  must  try  again  "  —  so  stated  the 
remittitur ! 

The  witnesses,  those  gray  old  men,  recalled  the 

ancient  history 
Of  Silas'  crime  with  halting  speech,  and  deep 

and  dark  the  mystery 


61 


To  them  of  why  they  were  recalled ;  with  quaver 
ing  tones,  in  truthfulness 

They  told  again  the  old,  old  tale  of  Silas'  erring 
youthfulness. 

The  jurors  held  he  could  not  change  his  spots, 
but  like  the  leopard  he; 

So  Silas'  counsel  straightway  held  he  had  been 
twice  in  jeopardy. 

Alas !    So  intricate  a  case,  with  all  the  points  in- 

volvable ! 
When  Death  took  Silas  and  to  dust  found  him 

to  be  resolvable. 
Took  him  for  reasons,  good,  perhaps,  but  which 

were  not  revealable, 
And  Silas'  counsel  found,  alack,  the  judgment 

not  appealable ! 
But   back   to   court   he    strode   when    sure   that 

Charon  o'er  had  ferried  him, 
And  cried :   "  I  want  a  nol.  pros,  for  my  client  — 

we  have  buried  him !  " 


'  Wmt  to 


Jes'  don'  seem  I  want  to  stay 
Sence  she  went  away. 
Jes'  don'  seem  as  if  I  care  ; 
Everything  seems  bare 
An'  empty  now,  an'  so  I  say 
Jes'  don'  seem  I  want  to  stay. 

Sun  shines,  bird  songs  in  th'  air, 
Jes'  don'  seem  I  care. 
All  th'  music  o'  th'  spring 
Don'  seem  anything. 


62 


Used  to  love  it,  but  today 
Jes'  don'  seem  I  want  to  stay. 

Walkin'  roun'  th'  field  today, 

Don'  look  th'  same  way ; 

Cattle  lowin',  crop  to  spare, 

Jes'  seems  I  don'  care. 

Scent  o'  flowers  an'  new  cut  hay,  — 

Jes'  don'  seem  I  want  to  stay. 

Used  to  like  to  hear  th'  breeze 
Rustlin'  through  th'  trees ; 
Thought  th'  grass  a-growin'  green 
Prettiest  thing  I  seen. 
All  changed  sence  she  went  away, 
Jes'  don'  seem  to  want  to  stay. 


Jfcbblesi  in  tty  Istoam 

Drop  a  pebble  in  the  water  —  jes'  a  splash  an' 
it  is  gone, 

But  th's  half  a  hundred  ripples  circlin'  on,  an' 
on,  an'  on, 

Spreadin',  spreadin'  from  the  center,  flowin'  on 
out  to  the  sea, 

An'  th'  ain't  no  way  o'  tellin'  where  th'  end  is 
goin'  to  be. 

Drop  a  pebble  in  the  water  —  in  a  minute  ye  for 
get, 

But  th's  little  waves  a-flowin'  an'  th's  ripples  cir 
clin'  yet ; 

All  th'  ripples  flowin',  flowin',  to  a  mighty  wave 
hev  grown, 

An'  ye've  disturbed  a  mighty  river  —  jes'  by 
droppin'  in  a  stone. 


Drop  an  unkind  word  or  careless  —  in  a  minute 

it  is  gone, 
But  th's  half  a  hundred  ripples  circlin'  on,  an'  on, 

an'  on. 
Th'  keep  spreading  spreadin',  spreadin'  from  th' 

center  as  th'  go, 
An'  th'   ain't  no  way  to  stop   'em,  once  ye've 

started  'em  to  flow. 
Drop  an  unkind  word  or  careless  —  in  a  minute 

ye  forget, 

But  th's  little  waves  a-flowin'  an'  th's  ripples  cir 
clin'  yet; 
An'  perhaps  in  some  sad  heart  a  mighty  wave  of 

tears  ye've  stirred, 
An'  disturbed  a  life  'et's  happy  when  ye  dropped 

an  unkind  word. 

Drop  a  word  o'  cheer  an'  kindness  —  jes'  a  flash 

an'  it  is  gone, 
But  th's  half  a  hundred  ripples  circlin'  on,  an' 

on,  an'  on, 

Bearin'  hope  an'  joy  an'  comfort  on  each  splash- 
in',  dashin'  wave, 
Till  ye  wouldn't  b'lieve  the  volume  o'  th'  one  kind 

word  ye  gave. 
Drop  a  word  o'  cheer  an'  kindness  —  in  a  minute 

ye  forget, 
But  th's  gladness  still  a-swellin'  an'  th's  joy  a- 

circlin'  yet; 
An'  ye've  rolled  a  wave  of  comfort  whose  sweet 

music  can  be  heard 
Over  miles  an'  miles  o'  water  —  jes'  by  droppin' 

a  kind  word. 


Content 


Give  me  Content,  all  else  is  vain. 
Nor  Power  nor  Majesty  may  gain 
The  prize.     And  yet  in  me  are  blent 
All  these,  the  while  I  have  Content. 


Hark !  I  hear  the  happy  laughter  that  from  chil 
dren's  voices  rings, 

Swelling  out  like  some  vast  golden  harp  with 
half  a  thousand  strings, 

Every  one  vibrating  grandly  in  an  ecstatic  ac 
claim, 

In  a  medley  of  swreet  melodies  that  set  the  birds 
to  shame ; 

On  the  harp  of  childhood's  happiness  each  note 
rings  clear  and  true, 

For  the  heart  is  pure  and  perfect  and  each  quiv 
ering  string  is  new, 

And  it  tells  and  swells  like  bells  afar  that  ring 
and  rhyme  and  chime 

The  sweetest  music  ever  told  in  note  or  tune  or 
time. 

When  the  heart  is  growing  older  and  the  harp  of 

laughter  rings, 
There's  a  false  note  clashing  somewrhere  in  the 

swelling  of  the  strings ; 
There's   a   chord   that   strikes   imperfect,   where 

some  sorrow  echoes  through 
The  melody,  and  grief  has  warped  the  strings 

to  strains  not  true. 


Sometimes  there's  brilliant  music  that  rings  from 
an  empty  heart, 

But  it's  not  the  melodious  laughter  of  the  child, 
that  knows  no  art, 

But  just  flows  full  and  free,  for  Nature's  teach 
ings,  undefiled, 

Make  music  that  is  heart-true  in  the  sweet  voice 
of  a  child. 

Could  I  gather  every  note  that  floats  and  rings 

and  swells  and  tells 
The  gladness  of  the  child's  heart,  true  as  any 

chime  of  bells 
May  tell  the  passing  hour,  and  fashion  them  into 

a  song, 
'Twould  thrill   and  fill  the  air  with   melody  as 

though  a  throng 
Of    seraphim,    as    tinkling    cymbals    struck    the 

twinkling  stars 

In  heaven's  perfect  music,  where  no  din  or  dis 
cord  mars. 
And  a  myriad  strings  would  mingle  in  a  melody 

sublime, 
The  rhyme  and  chime  of  laughter  gathered  from 

all  Childhood's  Time. 


(EIj*  gororr  of 

The  thunder  of  Hate  may  be  lost  on  the  gale. 
May  be  stilled  in  the  storm,  in  the  tempest  may 

'  fail, 

But  the  whisper  of  Love  wings  unerring  its  way 
From  a  star  to  a  star,  through  the  ages  for  aye. 


66 


A  Ijttmatt 

A  ship  that  throbs  along  in  dire  distress 
Till  lost  in  oceans  of  forgetfulness. 
A  tangle  of  sweet  flowers  whose  petals  turn 
To  ash  of  unfulfillment  in  an  urn. 

A  wisp  of  tangled  threads,  whose  parted  ends 
No  deft  hand  joins,  no  endless  effort  mends. 
A  play  whose  fickle  players  merely  greet 
And  go  and  leave  the  story  incomplete. 

A  bud  that  opens  brilliant  at  the  dawn, 
Flings  sweet  perfume  a  moment  and  is  gone. 
A  breath  between  a  cradle  and  a  bier, 
The  blending  of  a  smile,  a  sob,  a  tear. 

A  book  whose  pages  turn  with  each  new  day, 
Till  Time  has  read  the  tale  and  cast  away. 
A  mask  worn  till  a  passing  play  is  done, 
To  cloak  a  wraith  and  hide  a  skeleton. 

A  lie,  whose  ghostly  semblance  is  concealed 
Till  in  a  shroud  its  untruth  lies  revealed. 
A  thing  that  shapes  the  sod  for  a  brief  day 
And  dies  and  leaves  its  faithful  slave  more  clay. 

A  story  that  is  told  ere  'tis  begun, 

A  song  that  only  whispers  and  is  done ; 

A  thing  that  chains  the  lightnings  and  that  stirs 

The  deep  —  the  elements  its  messengers. 

Lord  of  the  sea  and  sky,  a  ruler  proud 
That  quakes  at  storms  and  trembles  at  a  cloud ; 
That  comes  and  goes  on  wings  unseen  —  a  germ 
That  grows  to  fill  a  grave  and  feed  a  worm. 


67 


Mutter 

Snow  on  the  hilltops,  drear  and  bleak, 
Snow  in  the  vales  where  the  shrill  winds  speak 
In  mournful  tones ;  but  deep  and  deep 
Down,  down,  beneath,  the  flowers  sleep. 

Green  are  the  hilltops,  fresh  and  fair. 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  scented  air, 
Loosed  the  chains  of  the  ice-locked  lake. 
And  the  sad  earth  smiles  and  the  flowers  wake. 

Snow  on  the  heart  that  is  riven  and  bleak, 
Snow  on  the  heart  where  voices  speak, 
Voices  of  grief  that  is  deep  and  deep, 
Yet  still  in  the  heart  the  flowers  sleep. 

A  whisper  of  hope  on  the  scented  air, 
Flown  is  the  snow  and  the  bleak  heart  fair ; 
Dull  Grief's  grim  fetters  break  and  break, 
And  the  sad  heart  smiles  and  the  flowers  wake. 


"Where  lies  the  town  of  Happiness?" 
Cried  the  youth  to  the  wrinkled  sage, 

As  they  met  one  day  on  the  weary  way 
That  lies  'twixt  Youth  and  Age. 

The  gray  haired  wise  man  shook  his  head 
'Tis  a  little  farther  on,"  he  said. 

"  Where  lies  the  town  of  Happiness  ? 

I  pray  we  reach  it  soon ;  " 
For  risen  high  in  the  molten  sky 

Was  the  sun  that  marked  Life's  noon. 
But  again  the  wise  man  shook  his  head : 
"  'Tis  a  little  farther  on,"  he  said. 

68 


"  Where  lies  the  town  of  Happiness  ?  " 

The  youth  was  old  and  gray, 
With  shoulders  bent,  and  eyes  intent 

Where  the  road  stretched  forth,  away. 
The  wise  man  sadly  shook  his  head  : 
"  'Tis  a  little  farther  on,"  he  said. 

"Where  lies  the  town  of  Happiness?" 
Down,  down  in  the  dust  he  fell  ; 

His  voice  was  shrill  and  the  death  films  fill 
His  eyes.     Mused  the  sage  :    "  'Tis  well." 

And  there  gleamed  in  his  eye  a  tear  unshed 

"  For  me,  'tis  farther  on,"  he  said. 


If  he  came  back,  I  wonder  would  he  know 
The  voices  whispering  of  the  long  ago? 
If  he  came  back,  I  wonder  would  he  see 
The  beauties,  buried  now,  that  used  to  be? 
If  he  came  back,  back  from  the  dust  and  dead, 
I  wonder  would  he  seek  the  broken  thread, 
And  follow  on,  o'er  sod  and  o'er  the  sea, 
Until  it  led  him  back  to  youth  and  me? 

If  he  came  back,  I  wonder  would  he  share 
My  dreams?     Or  would  the  roses  in  my  hair 
Be  but  dull,  voiceless  flowers  of  the  spring, 
Speechless  and  silent,  mute,  nor  whispering 
The  secrets  once  they  told  ?    Or  would  they  glow 
With  the  sweet  memories  of  long  ago, 
Where  every  petal  quivered  with  the  weight 
And  grandeur  of  a  rapture  passionate? 

If  he  came  back,  I  wonder  would  he  feel 
The  rapture  of  the  hopes  that  used  to  steal 
From  out  the  tinted  twilight  as  we  stood 
Beneath  the  boughs  in  the  thick,  leafy  wood, 

69 


Thrilled  with  the  song  whose  silent  melody 
None  heard  in  all  its  ecstasy  but  we? 
Would  he  now  hear  that  whispered  song  and  low 
If  he  came  back,  who  went  so  long  ago? 

Where  ends  the  song  that  is  yet  half  unsung? 
In  the  still  mound,  where  the  green  turf  upflung? 
Dies  all  the  music,  or  but  hid  in  air, 
Trembling,  yet  mute,  in  that  vast  Otherwhere? 
The  threads  now  parted,  who  shall  mend  again, 
Weld  broken  links,  restore  the  chain  ?    And  then 
When  they  come  back,  who  have  been  gone  so 

long, 
I  wonder  will  they  know  the  old,  sweet  song? 


At 


A  woman  poor  and  a  peeress  proud, 
A  dingy  room  and  a  crushing  crowd, 
The  gloom  of  death  and  grave  and  shroud, 
A  stifled  cry  and  a  sob,  aloud. 

A  heart  has  heard  and  an  eye  has  read  ; 
A  soul  has  writhed,  and  a  lowered  head 
Is  bowed,  and  a  trembling  tongue  has  said  : 
"  My  God  !     My  God  !    And  he  is  dead  !  " 

A  wail,  a  sob,  and  a  bitter  cry  ; 

An  anguished  tear  in  a  woman's  eye  ; 

A  peeress'  face  where  agony 

Is  carved,  and  a  mutely  murmured  "  Why?  " 

A  woman  stares  and  a  peeress  starts. 
Without,  the  din  of  traffic's  marts 
Throbs  in  the  streets.     Lie  far  apart 
Their  lives;  but  close,  so  close  their  hearts. 


70 


A  wreath  of  roses  hung  upon  a  stone, 
Above  me,  this  alone. 

A  sob  that  floats,  and  falling  tear  on  tear 
Descending  here. 

Some  soul  in  sorrow  kneeling  at  the  tomb, 
And  in  the  gloom, 

Pouring  above  me  to  the  silent  air 
Its  deep  despair. 

Though  cold  the  pulseless  clay  and  deaf  the  ear, 
Yet  I  shall  hear. 

Though  the  thick  shadows  endlessly  shall  flow, 
Still  shall  I  know. 

Though  from  the  dumb,  dead  tenement  in  flight 
Wing  life  and  light, 

Yet  not  deserted  lies  the  silent  clay, 
For  Love  shall  stay. 

Crumble  the  stone  and  in  the  dust  shall  lie, 
Yet  Love  not  die. 

Through  the  long  night  when  the  dark  shadows 
creep, 

Not  even  sleep, 

But  whisper  from  the  silence  of  the  bier : 
"  Lo  !     I  am  here." 


We're  off  for  the  village  church  today  —  Mother 

an'  Moll  an'  me, 

Come  fr'm  th'  city,  a  hundred  miles,  to  go,  es 
pecially. 
Been  goin'  to  1:r-->wnstone  gospel  shops,  imposin' 

an'  grand  an'  swell, 
But  I  don't  feel  that  hankerin'  there  for  heaven 

or  that  proper  fear  o'  hell 
That  I  allus  did  in  th'  little  church  in  th'  village 

we  used  to  'tend, 
Where  th'  green  woodbine  an'  tlr  ivy  twine,  an' 

the  songbirds'  voices  blend 
With  th'  village  choir,  an'  the  gospel  hymns  rang 

out  on  th'  summer  air. 
An'  th'  Lord  sort  o'  seemed  to  come  right  down 

an'  sit  among  us  there. 

Off  for  th'  village  church  today  —  there's  a  tear 

in  Mother's  eye, 
An'  another  one  in  my  own,  I  guess,  but  I  couldn't 

tell  ye  wThy; 
Mebbe  it's  'cause  we  was  married  there,  so  many 

years  ago. 
An'  our  boy  lies  there  in  his  grave,  asleep,  an' 

th'  music  seems  to  flow 
Out  through  the  vine-clad  window  in  a  sort  o' 

lullaby, 
As  th'  breath  o'  God  might  kiss  th'  sod  where 

the  souls  all  sleeping  lie. 
Th'   air's   so   still  an'   the   sweet  hymns  fill  our 

hearts  with  peace  today, 
An'  th'  Lord  sort  o'  seems  to  come  right  down 

an'  kiss  our  tears  awav. 


72 


There's    a    somethin'    grand    'bout    the    village 

church  —  I  can't  jes'  tell  ye  why, 
But  ye  seem  to  get  right  close  to  God,  an'  ye 

stand  there  silently, 
Breathin'  a  prayer  so  earnest  like,  yer  eyes  all 

blurred  an'  dim, 
As  though   He   was   standin'   there   an'  ye  was 

whisperin'  to  Him. 
An'  th'  little  organ's  mellow  tones,  an'  th'  music 

seems  so  grand, 
Because  it  tells  a  tale  of  love  that  yer  heart  can 

understand. 
An'  yer  heart  feels  warm  with  love  that  ye  want 

the  world  to  know  an'  share, 
An'  th'  Lord  sort  o'  seems  to  come  right  down 

and  sit  among  us  there. 

I  got  to  live  in  th'  city,  'cause  I  got  my  int'rests 

there, 
But  Mother  an'  me,  when  we  come  to  die,  are 

both  a-goin'  to  share 
A  lot  in  the  village  churchyard,  where  our  lost 

boy  lies  asleep; 
An'  though  our  lives  is  happy,  sometimes  we  sit 

an'  weep, 
An'  sort  o'  yearn  for  th'  time  to  come  when  th' 

Lord's  own  lullaby 
Floats  through  th'  vine-clad  window  above  us  as 

we  lie ; 
When  our  boy  shall  wake  and  we  shall  take  his 

hand  at  th'  Judgment  day, 
Rise  from  th'  sod,  in  th'  steps  o'  God  —  we  three 

—  an'  go  away. 


73 


Live  in  Today,  nor  count  the  Future's  sorrow ; 

Live  in  Today,  nor  dream  the  Future's  pain ; 
Live  in  Today,  there  may  be  no  Tomorrow. 

Today's  delights  thou  mayst  not  know  again. 

Smile   in   Today ;    whate'er  the  morrow   brings 
thee, 

Smile  in  Today,  while  yet  thy  heart  is  glad ; 
Be  thou  the  songster  that  in  gladness  sings  free ; 

Today  is  bright ;  Tomorrow  may  be  sad. 

Today  Life's  harp  is  tuned  to  notes  of  gladness, 
Deft  Happiness  the  sweetest  notes  may  raise. 

Tomorrow  strikes  its  wailing  strings  to  sadness, 
And  Memory  only  mournful  music  plays. 


"Hello!"  says  I. 

"  Hello !  "  says  he. 
I  never  see  the  man  afore. 

"  Swap?  "  says  I. 

"  Dunno,"  says  he. 
"  Mebbe,  mebbe  —  I  ain't  shore." 

"Th'  bay?"  says  I. 

'  Th'  gray  ?  "  says  he. 
"  Swap !  "  says  we,  an'  both  unhitched. 

"  Fine  horse,"  says  I. 

"  O'  course,"  says  he ; 
An'  in  a  minute  we  had  switched. 

"  Git  up !  "  says  I. 
"  Git  up !  "  says  he. 
An'  both  them  horses  stood  stock  still ! 


74 


"Balk?"  says  I. 

"  Yep  !  "  says  he. 
"  Mine  too !  "  s'  I,  laughin'.  fit  to  kill. 

"  Say  !  "  says  I. 

"Hey?"  says  he. 
"  Guess  that's  horse  apiece,"  says  we. 

"  Good  day !  "  says  I. 

"  Good  day !  "  says  he. 
Best  joke,  b'  gosh,  I  ever  see ! 


Seek  not  to  fathom  Fate's  decree ; 
Whatever  has  been  was  to  be. 
Not  all  the  sighs  of  Time  could  stay 
The  heavy  hand  she  seeks  to  lay ; 
Not  all  the  tears  of  all  the  years 
Could  blot  one  page  from  yesterday. 

Seek  not  to  see  beyond  the  cloud, 
To  fathom  depths  beneath  the  shroud ; 
Thy  little  knowledge  soars  in  vain, 
To  beat  its  wings  in  dust  again. 
It  is  thy  doom  to  dwell  in  gloom 
Till  Death  shall  see  thee  rest  or  reign. 

Thou  canst  alone  hope  some  wise  plan 
Pervades  the  destiny  of  man ; 
That  purposes  divine  are  blent 
With  what  seems  chance  or  accident. 
That  out  afar,  the  falling  star 
Sees  purpose  to  its  mission  bent. 

Thou  art  a  prisoner  here,  alone, 
And  helpless  as  the  sod  or  stone ; 


75 


Small  as  on  greatness  lay'st  thou  stress, 
Great  as  thou  know'st  thy  littleness. 
A  child  of  Chance  and  Circumstance, 
God's  infant  in  thy  helplessness. 


Goin',  goin',  goin'  —  gone !     Mother,  dear,  don't 

cry; 
Th'  old  home's  passed  t'  other  hands,  but  mebbe, 

by  an'  by, 
We  may  save  an'  buy  another,  though  no  place'll 

ever  be 
As  dear  as  this  one  that  we've  lost  has  been  t' 

you  an'  me. 

Goin',  goin',  goin'  —  gone !    Mother,  come  away ; 
Th'  ol'  farm's  been  knocked  down  an'  sold  —  it 

does  no  good  t'  stay; 

We've  tried  our  best  t'  save  it,  but  it  wasn't  or 
dered  so. 
It  ain't  our  home  no  longer  —  Mother,  dear,  le's 

go! 

I  don't  know  as  I  ever  see  th'  ol'  farm  look  so 

fine. 
Never  see  a  deeper  green  on  every  shrub  an' 

vine; 
Clover  blossoms  never  smelled  so  fresh  an'  sweet, 

somehow, 
Lilacs  never  grew  so  thick,  it  seems,  as  th'  do 

now. 
The  ol'  white  house  with  its  green  blinds,  the 

woodbine  creepin'  on, 
'Twon't  do  no  harm,  I  guess,  t'  take  a  las'  look 

'fore  we're  gone. 


76 


Tried  our  best  t'  pay  th'  debt,  we  did,  th'  Lord 

mus'  know, 
But  somehow  couldn't  make  it  quite  —  Mother, 

dear,  le's  go. 

Coin',  goin',  goin'  —  gone !    I  seem  t'  hear  it  yet ; 
Seem  t'  hear  the  auctioneer  —  my  eyes  somehow 

get  wet; 
Gone  t'  pay  th'  mor'gagee,  an'  we  are  crowded 

out. 
Gone !    So  many  things  are  gone  that  folks  don't 

think  about. 

Every  blade  o'  grass  an'  tree,  every  foot  o'  ground 
Has    some    hauntin'    memory,    some    sweetness 

clingin'  'round, 
Some  memory  for  you  an'  me,  that  other  folks 

don't  know ; 
It  seems  somehow  the' re  speakin'  now  —  Mother, 

dear,  le's  go. 

Goin',  gone  !    We  couldn't  save  it,  Mother,  dear ; 

we  tried, 
But  everything  went  criss-cross  —  th'  cows  took 

sick  an'  died. 
We  had  to  sell  th'   horses  —  th'   farmin'   didn't 

pay, 

An'  troubles  sort  o'  double-quicked  —  sometimes 
the'  come  that  way. 

Goin',  gone  !  The  pasture  lands ;  th'  dairy  house 
beside 

Th'  brook;  the  first  house  that  we  built,  where 
Sue  and  Johnny  died. 

T'  other  folks  it's  simply  losin'  of  a  bit  o'  land, 

But  the's  a  loss  t'  you  an'  me  that  they  can't  un 
derstand. 


77 


Coin',  goin',  goin'  —  gone !    I  wonder  what's  th' 

use 
Twinin'   heartstrings   'round   an'   'round   jes'   t' 

tear  'em  loose. 
Goin',  gone  !  Th  'way  o'  life ;  why,  th'  good  Lord 

knows ; 
Buildin'  up  for  years  an'  years,  an'  then  away  she 

goes! 
Hopes  or  homes,  it's  jes'  th'  same  —  what  we 

build  about, 
Other   hands   mus'    reap   th'    fruits   an'   we   are 

crowded  out; 

Story  always  jes'  th'  same,  fr'm  th'  light  o'  dawn 
T'   th'   twilight's  mist  an'   shade  —  hopes  goin', 

goin',  gone. 


I  know  one  deed  in  kindness  done 
More  glory  brings,  more  fame  has  won. 
Than  countless  good  we  would  have  wrought 
To  all  the  world  —  if  we  had  thought. 


fnr 


Sometimes  I  think  I'll  thrash  him,  good, 

He  needs  it  bad,  I'm  sure  ; 
An'  sometimes  —  well,  I  b'lieve  I  would, 

'N  then  I  can't  endure 
T'  tech  th'  'musin'  little  kid, 

For  when  he  smiles,  y'  see, 
He  looks  jes'  like  his  mother  did, 

An'  that's  enough  for  me. 


I  guess  a  hundred  times  or  more 

I've  taken  him  inside 
Th'  bedroom  there,  an'  closed  th'  door 

An'  tried  an'  tried  an'  tried 
T'  bring  myself  to  strike  him,  once, 

Jes'  once  —  an'  then  I  see 
His  mother's  smile  on  his  wet  face, 

An'  that's  enough  for  me. 

First  thing  I  know  I'm  sittin'  there 

Pettin'  th'  little  chap, 
An'  strokin'  of  his  curly  hair, 

Holdin'  him  in  my  lap, 
An'  dreamin'  of  her  —  seein'  her 

Jes'  as  she  used  to  be, 
An'  somethin'  makes  my  eyes  t'  blur, 

An'  me  cry  silently. 

He's  got  the  same  brown  eyes  she  had, 

An'  the  same  silky  hair; 
Looks  so  like  her,  th'  little  lad, 

That  —  well,  I  jes'  don'  dare 
To  lay  a  finger  rough  on  him; 

'T  'd  almos'  seem  as  though 
I  was  a-bein'  harsh  to  her, 

An'  so  I  let  him  go. 

He  ain't  a  bad  boy  —  no,  he  ain't, 

Jes'  mischievous,  that's  all. 
In  all  his  makeup  th'  ain't  a  taint 

O'  meanness  —  an'  I  call 
T'  mind  when  things  she  used  to  do 

Exactly  like  he  does, 
I  thought  was  jes'  th'  cutest  an' 

Th'  dearest  ever  was. 


79 


Y'  know  sometimes  he'll  come  t'  me, 

An'  say  to  me :    "  Say,  Dad, 
Y'  ain't  goin'  t'  whip  me,  now,  are  ye? 

I  ain't  been  very  bad." 
An'  then  he'll  twist,  an'  sort  o'  smile ; 

My  eyes  get  blurred  and  dim : 
Th'  ain't  enough  gold  in  th'  world 

T'  hire  me  t'  tech  him. 

Folks  say  I'm  spoilin'  him ;  may  be 

I  am,  but  I  don't  dare 
T'  tech  him  rough  —  he  looks  like  she 

Did,  an'  so  I  don't  care. 
He  puts  his  little  arms  aroun' 

My  neck,  an'  I  can  see 
Her  in  his  eyes,  so  big  an'  brown, 

An'  that's  enough  for  me. 


Saps 

Lights  out !  and  darkness  brooding  deep  around 
Thee,  soldier;  not  the  trembling  bugle's  sound 
Nor  volley  thrice  repeated  o'er  the  mound 

Shall  waken  thee. 

Lights  out!     Not  where  the  flag  of  battle  flies, 
Nor  here,  where  the  sad,  silent  shadow  lies, 
Shall  drumbeat  call  or  bugle  bid  thee  rise, 

But  silently, 

Thy  duty  done,  thou  sleepest.     Rest  thee  well; 
Nor  any  rude  alarm  shall  strike  and  swell 
To  rouse  thee  —  Glory  stands  thy  sentinel. 

Good  night  to  thee ! 


80 


of 


'Tis  not  by  wishing  that  we  gain  the  prize, 

Nor  yet  by  ruing, 
But,  from  our  fallings,  learning  how  to  rise, 

And  tireless  doing. 

The  idols  broken,  not  our  tears  and  sighs 

May  yet  restore  them. 
Regret  is  only  food  for  fools;  the  wise 

Look  but  before  them. 

Nor  ever  yet  Success  was  wooed  with  tears  ; 

To  notes  of  gladness 
Alone  the  fickle  goddess  turns  her  ears, 

She  hears  not  sadness. 

The  heart  thrives  not  in  the  dull  rain  and  mist 

Of  gloomy  pining. 
The  sweetest  flowers  are  the  flowers  sun-kissed, 

Where  glad  light  shining. 

Look  not  behind  thee;  there  is  only  dust 

And  vain   regretting. 
The  lost  tide  ebbs  ;  in  the  next  flood  thou  must 

Learn,  by  forgetting. 

For  the  lost  chances  be  ye  not  distressed 

To  endless  weeping; 
Be  not  the  thrush  that  o'er  the  empty  nest 

Is  vigil  keeping. 

But  in  new  efforts  our  regrets  today 

To  stillness  whiling, 
Let  us  in  some  pure  purpose  find  the  way 

To  future  smiling. 


81 


(§ut  ©for 


I  see  the  transport's  here  at  last  ;  the  soldier  boys 

have  come. 
I  hear  the  bugles  brayin'  an'  the  beatin'  o'  the 

drum  ; 
I  can  see  the  flags  a-flyin'  and  the  bands  begin  to 

play, 
An'  it  seems  to  me  they  sailed  from  Frisco  only 

yesterday. 
I'd  like  to  join  the  shoutin',  but  I  couldn't  cheer 

a  note; 
There's  a  lump  that's  always  risin'  and  a-chokin' 

in  my  throat. 
They're  marchin'  down  the  street  by  twos;  I'm 

watchin'  every  pair, 
But  I  know  my  boy  ain't  with  'em  —  they  have 

left  him  over  there. 

I  know  a  fellow  ought  to  try  to  put  aside  his 

tears, 
An'  he  ought  to  join  the  shoutin'  an'  the  ringin', 

rousin'  cheers. 
But  say  !    It's  hard  to  stand  here  an'  to  see  'em 

marchin'  on, 
An'  to  know  that  my  boy's  missin'  from  them 

marchin'  ranks,  an'  gone. 
Say,  if  I  could  only  see  him,  with  his  head  erect 

an'  high, 
An'  if  he  could  know  I  was  a-watchin'  of  him 

passin'  by! 
An'  know  that  in  that  cheerin'  he  was  gettin'  of 

his  share  ! 
But  he  can't  —  the  Lord  saw  fit  to  muster  him 

out  over  there. 


82 


There's  so  many,  Lord,  so  many ;  an'  my  boy  was 

all  I  had, 
An'  it  seems  you  might  'a'  left  him  to  his  poor 

old  lovin'  Dad. 
His  mother  died  so  long  ago ;  he  never  knew  her 

face, 
An'   Daddy's  breast  in  childhood  was  his  only 

restin'  place. 
An'  when  the  call  for  volunteers  was  made,  he 

come  to  me, 
An'  he  pleaded  to  go  with  'em,  an'  he  begged  so 

earnestly, 
An'  I  says :   "  He's  all  I've  got,  Lord,  an'  I  know 

you'll  surely  spare 
My  boy,  an'  let  him  come  back."    An'  he's  lyin' 

over  there. 

An'  I  thought  to  go  to  Frisco,  an'  to  greet  him 

when  he  come ; 
An'  to  stay  till  he  was  mustered  out,  an'  then  to 

bring  him  home. 
An'  so  I'm  here  to  see  the  boys,  —  to  hear  the 

shouts  an'  cheers ; 
A  poor  old   father   watchin'   'em   through   eyes 

that's  blurred  with  tears. 
I  know  he's  not  among  'em,  but  it  sort  o'  seems 

to  me, 
That  he  can't  be  lyin'  out  there  dead,  across  the 

sobbin'  sea. 
There's  so  many  boys,  so  many,  that  the  Lord 

was  good  to  spare, 
That  I  can't  believe  my  boy  is  in  his  grave  out 

over  there. 


Hook  lip 

Each  little  day 

That  slips  away 
And  finds  for  thee  no  pleasure, 

That  steals  along 

Without  a  song, 
Is  just  a  wasted  treasure. 

The  sands  that  pass 

Through  the  hour  glass 
And  find  thee  in  repining, 

Mark  the  lost  hours. 

The  freshest  flowers 
Blow  when  the  sun  is  shining. 

Thou  shalt  not  grope 

For  the  lost  hope 
Through  darkness  dim,  unending. 

Ne'er  vain  regret 

Succeeded  yet 
A  broken  thread  in  mending. 

The  chance  that's  lost, 

Let  not  the  cost 
Be  flowing  tears  and  sighing, 

When  countless  more 

From  life's  vast  store 
Are  to  be  had  for  trying. 

So  put  away 

Thy  cares  today, 
And  cease  thy  fate  reviling; 

For  Chance  eludes 

The  soul  that  broods, 
And  courts  the  soul  that's  smiling. 


Some  sleep  under  the  sighing  pine, 

And  some  sleep  under  the  snow; 
Some  where  flowers  toss  and  twine, 

And  some  where  oceans  flow. 
Some  where  the  glacier  growls  and  grinds, 

And  some  'neath  the  cool,  green  sod ; 
But  all  sleep  the  same  sleep,  and  waking  finds 

Each  one  in  the  arms  of  God. 


Writing  a  Setter  Sjom* 

He  wrote  home :    "  Mother,  dear,  I  have 

A  place  that  will  not  fail. 
I'm  working  for  the  Commonwealth." 

('Twas  true  —  he  was  in  jail.) 

"  I  board  and  lodge  at  my  employer's 
House."     ('Twas  so,  you  see.) 

"  I  have  a  private  room,  that  has 
Been  set  apart  for  me. 

"  My  habits  are  quite  regular. 

I  do  each  bidden  task. 
My  food  " — ('Twas  bread  and  water,  lone;) 

"  Is  all  that  I  can  ask. 

"  I'm  held  above  my  fellow  men 

And  my  companions  here." 
(He  was  the  only  prisoner 

Kept  in  the  upper  tier.) 

"  I  had  some  hope  that  I  might  come 

To  see  you  Christmas  Day; 
But  as  it  is,  I  do  not  see 

How  I  can  get  away. 

85 


"  I  am  to  make  a  journey  soon," 
(He  was  condemned,  you  know, 

For  murder,)  "but  I  cannot  say 
Yet,  just  where  I  will  go." 

The  sheriff  wrote,  after  'twas  done : 

"  Your  son  died  suddenly. 
'Twas  just  this  morning  he  dropped  off  " 

(The  gallows,  don't  you  see.) 

"  Your  son  stood  high  among  us  here," 
(The  gallows  was  quite  tall.) 

"And  hundreds  gathered  at  the  last  " 
(They  did  —  to  see  him  fall.) 

The  dear  old  lady  read  the  news, 

And  said,  wiping  her  eye: 
"Ah,  well  —  since  he  must  be  cut  down, 

I'm  glad  he  stood  so  high." 


(Eup  Utli 


The  cup  will  pass, 

How  bitter  may  it  be  ; 
Though  thou  mayst  drain 

Its  deepest  dreg  and  lee, 
A  sweeter  wine 

Some  day  will  brim  the  glass, 
The  draught  be  thine  ; 

The  bitter  cup  will  pass. 


86 


Did  ye  ever  pass  a  youngster  'et  'd  been  an' 

stubbed  his  toe. 
An'  was  cryin'  by  the  roadside  sort  o'  quiet  like 

an'  slow ; 
A-holdin'  of  his  dusty  foot,  all  hard  an'  brown 

an'  bare, 
An'  tryin'  to  keep  fr'm  his  eyes  th'  tears  that's 

gatherin'   there  ? 
Ye  hear  him  sort  o'  sobbin'  like,  an'  snufflin'  of 

his  nose, 
Ye  stop  an'  pat  his  head  an'  some  way  try  t'  ease 

his  woes; 
Ye  treat  him  sort  o'  kind  like,  an'  th'  fust  thing 

that  y'  know, 
He's  up  an'   off  an'   smilin'  —  clean   forgot  he 

stubbed  his  toe. 

'Long  th'  road  o'  human  life  ye  see  a  fellow  trav- 

elin'  slow, 
An'  like  as  not  ye'll  find  he's  some  poor  chap 

that's  stubbed  his  toe. 
He    was    makin'    swimmin'    headway,    but    he 

bumped  into  a  stone, 
An'  his  friends  kep'  hurryin'  onward  an'  they 

left  him  here  alone. 
He  ain't  sobbin'  er  ain't  snifflin'  —  he's  too  old 

for  tears  an'  cries, 
But  he's  grievin'  jes'  as  earnest,  ef  it  only  comes 

in  sighs  ; 
An'  it  does  a  heap  o'  good,  sometimes,  to  go  a 

little  slow, 
To   say   a   word   o'   comfort  to  th'   man  that's 

stubbed  his  toe. 


Ye're  never  sure  yerself,  an'  th'  ain't  no  earthly 

way  t'  know 
Jes'  when  it's  goin'  t'  come  yer  time  t'  trip  an' 

stub  yer  toe ; 
Today  ye're  smilin',  happy,  in  th'  bright  sun's 

heat  an'  glow, 
Tomorrow   ye're   a'   shiverin'   as  ye're   trudgin' 

through  th'  snow. 
Jes'  when  ye  think  ye  got  th'  world  th'  fastest  in 

yer  grip 
Is  th'  very  time,  ye'll  find,  et  ye're  th'  likeliest  t' 

slip; 
'N'  it's  mighty  comfortin'  t'  have  some   fellow 

stop,  I  know, 
An'  speak  t'  ye  an'  kind  o'  help  ye  when  ye've 

stubbed  ver  toe. 


Today,  bestrewn  the  troubled  way 
With  fears,  as  saints  we  kneel  to  pray. 
The  way  tomorrow  unbeset, 
Self-proud  we  rise  —  and  we  forget. 


An  Art  Qlrtttriam 

A  ragged  kid  in  a  torn  straw  hat, 

With  his  hair  stuck  through,  an'  a  sassy  smile, 
An'  one  suspender  'crost,  like  that  — 

Wai  —  it  may  be  art,  but  it  ain't  my  style. 

Diggin'  th'  sand  with  his  bare  big  toe, 
An'  a  big  loose  patch  sewed  to  his  knee; 

Shovin'  his  hands  in  his  pockets  —  so ; 
Why  they  call  that  art,  dogged  ef  I  see. 

88 


Why,  th'  little  runt  'et's  painted  there, 

With  his  eyes  half  closed,  an'  winkin'  down, 

Th'  sassy  little  rat,  I  swear 

I've  seen  him,  right  in  my  own  town. 

Them  funny  freckles,  big  an'  brown, 

'N'  them  ragged  pants  an'  that  torn  straw  hat — 

I  bet  I  kin  find,  right  in  our  town, 
A  dozen  kids  'et  look  like  that. 

Why,  sho !     I've  caught  more  kids  like  that 
In  th'  limbs  o'  my  own  apple  tree, 

Lookin'  out  under  that  ol'  straw  hat, 
An'  winkin'  sassy  down  at  me. 

Th'  little  scamp !     I  kin  almost  hear 

Him  say :   "  Hev  an  apple,  Dad,"  an'  throw 

One  down  an'  ketch  me  on  th'  ear ! 

Why  they  call  that  art,  dogged  ef  I  know. 

An'  th'  goldarned  thing !    A  city  chap 
Come  along  an'  paid  five  hundred  cold 

Fer  it,  an'  thought  he  had  a  snap. 
I  had  t'  laugh  't  how  he  got  sold. 

A  ragged  kid  in  a  torn  straw  hat, 

Like  I've  seen  a  hundred  times,  I  bet; 

An'  payin'  out  that  much  fer  that ! 
B'  gosh,  th'  fools  ain't  all  dead  yet !  " 


89 


W&  Arrlpr'a 

A  feathered  arrow  to  his  bow 
The  archer  Hatred  fitted  taut, 

Drew  tight  the  bowstring,  kneeling  low, 
And  forth  a  venomed  message  shot. 

So  full  his  quiver  he  forgot, 

Ere  died  the  twang  of  his  bowstring, 

The  poisoned  shaft  that  forth  he  shot, 
The  venomed  message  set  a-wing. 

Until,  as  through  the  wood  he  sped 
Another  day,  he  found  it  where 

A  heart,  fell  stricken,  lying  dead, 

The  shaft  had  pierced  and  quivered  there. 


The's  a  little  touch  o'  winter  in  th'  air, 
The's  leaves  a-droppin',  droppin'  everywhere, 
The's  gusts  o'  snow  a-blowin', 
But  the's  evergreen  a-growin', 
Lookin'  fresher  'n  brighter  'n  ever, 
Jes'  to  show  'et  th'  ain't  never 
Any  time  when  all  th'  trees  is  stripped  an'  bare. 

The's  a  little  touch  o'  trouble  in  th'  air, 
The's  friends  a-droppin',  droppin'  everywhere, 
But  the's  some  'et's  clingin'  faster, 
Even  when  ye've  met  disaster, 
Jes'  to  show  'et  th'  ain't  ever 
Any  trouble  'et  can  sever 

Friends  'et's  evergreen  —  th'  kind  o'  friends  'et's 
rare. 


90 


"  Give  me  Fame,"  cried  the  genius. 

The  wizard's  smile  was  grim ; 
His  arm  stretched  forth  and  a  tasteless  fruit 

Plucked  from  a  rotten  limb. 
"  I  seek,  sir,  Fame,"  cried  the  genius, 

"  Ye  have  given  me  instead 
A  rotten  fruit."    The  wizard  spoke: 

"  This  is  Fame,"  he  said. 

"  Give  me  Power,"  cried  the  monarch. 

The  wizard  smiled  again. 
A  crown  of  thorns  he  gave  to  him 

And  a  sword  with  a  bloody  stain. 
"  But  I  seek  Power,"  cried  the  monarch, 

"  What  have  ye  given  instead  ?  " 
The  wizard  spoke :    "  I  tell  thee,  Sire, 

These  are  Power,"  he  said. 

"  Give  me  Love,"  cried  the  maiden. 

The  wizard  sadly  smiled ; 
A  bleeding  heart  he  gave  to  her, 

And  the  form  of  a  cold,  dead  child. 
"  I  asked  for  Love,"  mused  the  maiden, 

"  Ye  have  given  me  Grief  instead." 
The  wizard  sighed  and  softly  spoke: 

"  Love  is  Grief,"  he  said. 

"  Give  me  Peace,"  cried  a  weary  soul. 

The  wizard  laughed  aloud, 
Drew  forth  from  his  store  of  treasure 

And  gave  to  him  a  shroud. 
"  I  asked  for  Peace,"  he  shuddered, 

"  Ye  give  me  Death,  instead." 
The  wizard  mused.     "  I  tell  thee 

That  this  is  Peace,"  he  said. 


Back  among  the  trees  and  trellises,  along  the 
leaf-strewn  lane, 

Sitting  on  the  bank  of  the  mill  stream  and  dream 
ing  dreams  again, 

Drinking  water  sweet  as  nectar  from  the  bucket 
at  the  well, 

In  the  orchard's  leaf  and  silence,  watching  wind 
falls  as  they  fell, 

Trying  here,  at  five  and  thirty,  just  to  be  a  boy 
again, 

To  recall  the  joys  of  boyhood  and  forget  the 
cares  of  men ; 

But  I  listen  to  a  lesson  in  the  twitter  of  the  wren : 

When  the  boy's  heart  turns  to  man's  it  never 
throbs  the  same  again. 

Once  the  sun  marks  noon  of  lifetime,  once  the 

morning  steals  away, 
Once  the  shadows  growing  shorter  and  then  fall 

the  other  way, 
Once  the  play  time  ends  at  manhood,  once  the 

frolicking  is  done, 

Once  the  face  is  turned  from  dawning  to  the  set 
ting  of  the  sun, 
You  may  sit  among  the  flowers  that  you  plucked 

and  threw  away, 
Turn  the  leaves  of  Time  all  backward,  try  to  read 

them  as  you  may, 
You  may  kindle  fires  of  Memory,  you  may  sit 

and  watch  the  flame, 
But  there's  something  changed  within  you  that 

can  never  be  the  same. 


92 


You  may  la}'  aside  the  burden  of  your  troubles 

as  you  will, 
But  the  bent  and  sunken  shoulders  tell  the  story 

to  you  still ; 
The  story  of  the  troubles  and  the  trials  that  are 

sealed 
From  the  simple  hearts  of  children,  and  to  men 

alone  revealed. 
The   sorrow  dulls,  the   sigh   is   stilled,  the   sore 

hearts  soothed  are, 
The  smarting  wound  is  healed  again,  but  always 

leaves  a  scar, 
The  fire  of  youth  burns  only  once,  and  dies  in 

its  dead  flame, 
The  simple  heart  of  boyhood  that  can  never  be 

the  same. 

So  I  sit  among  the  trellises  and  trees  and  wonder 

why: 
Clear  the  air  as  in  my  boyhood  and  as  blue  the 

unflecked  sky, 
Full  the  leaves  as  ever  blowing,  sweet  the  bird 

songs  and  as  free, 

But  the  boy's  heart  that  throbbed  to  them  is  un 
tuned  and  dead  in  me. 
There's  a  longing,  longing,  longing,  speaking  in 

a  deep-drawn  sigh, 
For  the  heart  that  throbbed  in  boyhood,  cloudless 

as  the  azure  sky; 
For  the  heart  that  was  the  sunlight  and  the  air  — 

that  tongue  nor  pen 
Can  ever  paint  or  picture  —  that  I  cannot  know 

again. 


93 


Had  we  not  met  we  had  not  known  these  sighs, 
These    heartaches    and    these    leaden-winged 
years, 

The  sorrows  speaking  in  these  grief-wet  eyes ; 
Had  we  not  met  we  had  not  known  these  tears. 

And  yet,  had  we  not  met,  we  had  not  known 
The  bliss  of  gladness  in  those  other  whiles, 

Ere  the  gay-plumaged  yesterday  had  flown. 
Had  we   not  met  we  had   not  known   those 
smiles. 


Htumwtfoo 


The  sweetest  song  is  the  unsung, 
Unspoken  is  the  kindest  word, 

The  clearest  chime  the  heart's  unrung, 
The  grandest  music  the  unheard. 

Nor  singer  grand,  nor  bard  with  lyre, 
Within  his  sweetest  song  may  hold 

The  fullness  of  the  flaming  fire 
That  leaps  within,  but  is  not  told. 

There  is  a  grandeur  and  sublime 
That  lingers  hidden  in  the  heart; 

That  will  not  speak  in  note  or  rhyme, 
The  fire,  unseen,  that  flames  apart. 

The  grandest  deed  is  that,  undone, 

Whose  endless  promptings  veer  and  roll 

But  take  no  shape  —  the  rayless  sun 
That  shines  unseen  within  the  soul. 


94 


And,  deed  or  song  or  rhyme  or  word, 
That  soul  may  stir,  or  heart  may  fill, 

There  is  a  sweeter  far,  unheard, 
An  unseen  beauty,  grander  still. 

No  tongue  may  tell  the  deepest  roll, 
Where,  all  unfathomed,  sweep  apart 

The  ocean  waters  of  the  soul, 

The  depths  unseen,  within  the  heart. 


A  Jfarttttg 

"  Don'  go,  Bill,  don'  go ! 

I  know  it  mus'  seem  slow 

Here  on  th'  farm  fer  a  boy  like  you  ; 

I  know  the's  many  a  chore  to  do; 

Not  much  in  th'  way  o'  company, 

'Cept  what  ye  git  from  Ma  an'  me; 

An'  it's  temptin'  to  think  o'  th'  world  so  wide, 

An'  all  o'  th'  pleasures  o'  life  outside 

Our  quiet  little  home  life  here; 

But,  Bill,  it'll  seem  so  hard  an'  queer 

Fer  Ma  an'  me,  as  we  allus  do, 

Not  to  sit  an'  feel  so  proud  o'  you 

When  we  see  you  'roun'.    I  know  it's  slow, 

But,  Bill,  I  wisht  you  wouldn't  go ! 

"  Don'  go,  Bill,  don'  go ! 
Ma's  tears  jes'  flow  an'  flow 
When  she's  packin'  up  yer  trunk  —  an'  I  — 
Well,  Bill,  I  ain't  much  on  th'  cry, 
But  th'  ol'  man's  heart  is  heavy,  Bill, 
The's  an  achin'  there  that  won't  be  still. 
Jim's  gone,  an'  though  a  year's  gone  by, 
It  don'  seem  right  he  had  to  die ; 


95 


Then  Jack  lef  home,  an'  Lou  is  wed, 
An'  mebbe  even  Jack  is  dead, 
Per  we  haven't  heard  a  word  from  him. 
Bill !     Bill !     Our  flock  has  grown  so  slim, 
Ye're  all  we've  got  now,  Bill,  an'  so 
I  jes'  can't  bear  to  let  ye  go ! 

"  What  d'ye  say,  Bill  ?    Ye  won't  go ! 

Boy,  boy,  ye'll  never  know 

What  a  load  ye've  raised  fr'm  th'  ol'  folks'  heart, 

Fer  we  couldn't  bear  to  see  ye  start. 

Come,  here,  Bill,  let  me  hug  ye  once ; 

Well,  drat  me  fer  a  sneakin'  dunce, 

If  my  blame  ol'  eyes  ain't  filled  with  tears, 

When  I  feel  like  whoopin'  up  with  cheers. 

An'  Bill,  let's  go  tell  Mother  so, 

That  her  boy  says  he  ain't  goin'  to  go." 


Upon  the  stream  of  Life  we  see 

The  ship  of  Opportunity 
Cast  loose  from  wharf  and  pier, 

And  slip  to  sea;  alone  we  stand, 
Forsaken  in  a  lonely  land, 

Beset  with  fear  on  fear. 
Across  the  wave  we  crv  and  call : 

"Ho!    Wait!    Ho!   Wait!    Ho!   Wait! 
The  mocking  echoes  fly  and  fall: 

"  Too  late !    Too  late !    Too  late !  " 


96 


to  a  IGtitb 

Never  a  care  as  she  lies  asleep, 

Dear  little  lassie  with  red-brown  hair ; 
Angels  of  Light  a  sweet  vigil  keep, 

Keep  for  the  little  one  slumbering  there. 
Never  a  dream  as  she  lies  so  still, 

Never  a  dream  but  of  Fairyland, 
Fairyland  and  the  flowers  that  fill 

Her  bed,  and  the  lilies  within  her  hand. 

Never  a  tear  as  she  lies  at  rest, 

Now  or  ever  or  evermore ; 
Never  a  sorrow  to  bruise  her  breast, 

Ever  the  gladness  of  fairylore. 
Never  the  rough  way  to  bruise  her  feet, 

Never  or  ever  a  discord  sound, 
Only  the  murmur  of  music  sweet, 

And  the  laughing  of  Cherubim,  all  around. 

Never  a  sigh  from  the  silent  lips, 

For  the  dollies  all  carefully  laid  away; 
Only  the  music  of  laughter  slips 

Out  of  the  realm  of  the  sunlit  day. 
Never  or  ever  a  thought  or  care, 

For  the  little  hat  with  its  flowered  wreath, 
Bearing  a  vision  of  red-brown  hair 

Flying  in  tangled  curls  beneath. 

Dead?    Ah,  no!     She  is  just  asleep, 

Asleep  where  the  dreams  and  daisies  are ; 
Angels  of  Light  a  sweet  vigil  keep, 

Keep  in  the  light  of  a  twinkling  star. 
Asleep,  and  the  odors  of  flowers  fill 

Her  bed,  and  the  lilies  within  her  hand ; 
Asleep,  and  the  whispering  angels  still 

Her  sighs  with  the  dreams  of  Fairyland. 


97 


QJfj?  Siffrmtr? 

Sometimes  when  Pa  gets  mad  because 
I  bust  some  of  his  household  laws, 
He  says:    "Look  here,  you  rascal,  you, 
I'll  whale  you.  sir,  that's  what  I'll  do." 
An'  Ma,  she  just  turns  up  her  nose, 
An'  sits  there  in  refined  repose. 
An'  higher  still  her  nose  she  tilts ; 
An'  Pa  don't  lick  me  —  he  just  wilts. 

When  Ma  gets  mad  because  I  do 

Some  little  thing  she  said  not  to, 

She  don't  talk  loud  and  wild  like  Dad, 

But  just  says:    "  Will,  come  here,  my  lad.' 

An'  Pa  don't  get  no  chance  to  tilt 

His  nose  —  an'  Ma,  well,  she  don't  wilt ; 

She  just  leads  Willie  boy  away 

Out  to  the  shed  and  makes  him  lay 

Acrost  her  lap  —  seems  just  like  play, 

'Cept  Willie  don't  sit  down  that  day. 


iBij  tlj? 


Let  us  smile  along  together, 
Be  the  \veather 

Wrhat  it  may. 

Through  the  waste  and  wealth  of  hours, 
Plucking  flowers 

By  the  way. 

Fragrance  from  the  meadows  blowing, 
Naught  of  heat  or  hatred  knowing, 
Kindness  seeking,  kindness  sowing, 

Not  tomorrow,  but  today. 


98 


Let  us  sing  along,  beguiling 
Grief  to  smiling 

In  the  song. 

With  the  promises  of  heaven 
Let  us  leaven 

The  day  long. 

Gilding  all  the  duller  seemings 
With  the  roselight  of  our  dreamings, 
Splashing  clouds  with  sunlight's  gleamings, 

Here  and  there  and  all  along. 

Let  us  live  along;  the  sorrow 
Of  tomorrow 

Never   heed. 

In  the  pages  of  the  present 
What  is  pleasant 

Only  read. 

Bells  but  pealing,  never  knelling, 
Hearts  with  gladness  ever  swelling, 
Tides  of  charity  upwelling 

In  our  every  dream  and  deed. 

Let  us  hope  along  together, 
Be  the  weather 

What  it  may, 

Where  the  sunlight  glad  is  shining, 
Not  repining 

By  the  way. 

Seek  to  add  our  meed  and  measure 
To  the  old  Earth's  joy  and  treasure, 
Quaff  the  crystal  cup  of  pleasure, 

Not  tomorrow,  but  today. 


99 


Sweet  songs,  half  whispering  to  me  in  the  soli 
tude 

Of  sweeter  melody  they  might  have  sung, 
And  phantom  flowers  that  scent  for  me  the  leafy 

wood 
With  wraiths  of  the  perfume  they  might  have 

flung. 
Sweet  faces  smiling  dimly  through  the  shadowy 

light, 

Ghosts  of  the  full  perfection  that  had  shown, 
Had  not  the  sun  gone  down  ere  it  was  night. 
Leaving  but  shadows  of  the  unfulfilled,  alone. 


100 


There  are  flowers  of  good  cheer  growing  close 

by  the  way 

That  stretches  from  dark  to  the  dawn ; 
Full  wreathed  in  the  green  leaves  of  smiles,  so 

they  say. 

And  never  or  ever  are  gone. 
The    snows    of    misfortune    deep    mantling    the 

ground, 

The  blasts  from  the  Northland  grow  shrill, 
Beneath  we  may  find  them  full  blooming  around, 
And  pluck  them  whenever  we  will. 

There  are  ripples  of  laughter  down  deep  in  the 
heart, 

As  flowers  that  bloom  'neath  the  snows ; 
Though  fettered  with  ice  there  is  water  apart, 

That  tinkles  and  trills  as  it  flows. 
The  breath  of  Misfortune  may  strew   its  hoar 
frost, 

The  moan  of  the  winter  be  chill, 
The  music  of  joy  be  afar  but  not  lost, 

And  we  may  still  hear,  if  we  will. 

There  are  songs  of  Delight  on  the  wings  of  the 

wind, 

Though  hoarser  the  tempest  we  hear; 
Though  fierce  in  its  raging  the  wild  storm  has 

dinned 

Its  discord  of  strife  on  the  ear. 
The  deep  diapason,  the  storm's  sullen  roar, 

Shall  sink  to  a  murmur,  be  still ; 
And  songs  that  are  sweeter  shall  tremble  once 

more, 
The  songs  we  may  hear,  if  we  will. 


101 


A  Ula&g'a  ICrtter  of 

"  Indeed,  I  regret  that  I  cannot  accept," 

(Oh,  Lord,  what  a  whopper  was  that!) 
"  Poor  writing  is  weak ;  if  I  only  could  speak," 

(Yes,  if  I  could  speak  —  through  my  hat!) 
"  I  feel  that  you'd  know  that  it  just  grieves  me 
so." 

(If  I  went  I  just  know  I  should  die.) 
"  For  it's  always  a  treat  at  your  dear  house  to 
meet !  " 

(Oh,  yes,  it's  a  treat  —  in  your  eye!) 

"  Your  at-home  cards  enclosed  found  me  quite 

indisposed  " 

(To  accept  —  but  I  don't  write  it  so.) 
"And  I  really  don't  dare  yet  to  risk  the  night  air." 

(And  your  airs  would  kill  me,  I  know!) 
"  I  would  come  and  right  quick  if  I  weren't  so 

sick  " 

(Of  the  trashy  amusements  you  shower!) 
"  You  dear  soul,  you  don't  know  how  much  I'd 

like  to  go  " 
(Before  I'd  been  there  half  an  hour!) 

"  I'm  sure  that  each  guest  will  with  pleasure  be 

blessed." 

(I'm  blessed  if  I  envy  their  lot!) 
"  I'd  give  anything  to  hear  dear  Clara  sing !  " 

(How  thankful  I  am  that  I'll  not!) 
"  I  know  I  will  hear  from  my  friends  just  how 

dear 

Was  your  function"  (if  any  endure), 
"And  I  know  'tis  a  fact  'twill  be  nice  as  your 

tact." 
(I  pity  it  if  'tis  as  poor!) 


102 


Stril  of 


To  his  young  wife  he  said: 

"  Could  I 
But  taste  again  my 

Mother's  pie, 
I  would  be  willing,  quite, 

To  die." 

They  rode  out  to  the 

Farm  one  day, 
A  week  or  so  with 

Ma  to  stay; 
He  stowed  a  whole 

Mince  pie  away. 

Now  that  for  which  he 

Long  had  sighed 
Lay  like  a  lump  of 

Lead   inside 
His  stomach  ;  he  lay 

Down  and  died. 

The  man  who  craves  youth's 

Pies,  'tis  true, 
If  he  would  eat  them  and 

Not  rue, 
Should  have  his  boyhood's 

Stomach,  too. 


103 


9  9  /t 

C-  j«»  :s 


THERNREGI   NAL  LIBRARY  FAC  L,Y  . 


A     000676183     7 


